Winter Is Ending
by JoanieNobody
Summary: AU post Season 2 ep "Blackwater" The Long Night is ending. Sandor and Sansa are no longer the people they once were. But inevitably, history finally catches up with them and their family. Reunions, discoveries, old hurts, and forgiveness. Rated for language and adult situations. Sandor/Sansa, OCs, Jon Snow, Arya, Rickon, Bran, and quite a few others.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Welcome to my first GoT San/San fic! Just a few things to mention before we begin. First: This story is totally AU, taking place years after Sansa decided to take Sandor up on his offer to escape during the Blackwater battle. Second: The village where this story is set is one I made up, based loosely on the fact that Rory McCann mentioned in interviews that he used to be a lumberjack, as well as reading in a book somewhere that many towns that mostly dealt in lumber back in the day were often extremely isolated. I figured, where better for our runaway couple to hide out? Especially since the long winter was bound to isolate them even more.

So, without further ado...

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from _Game of Thrones_, or the characters Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark.**

(This first part in italics is a flashback. The dialog is taken from the Season 2 episode "Blackwater.")

_Sansa ran from the voices of the noblewomen singing hymns and Ser Ilyn's cold stare, straight to her room as her maid Shae told her to. It wasn't until she'd bolted the door that she realized how terrified she truly was. She'd kept herself in check while in the Queen's presence and even found a heretofore untapped reservoir of calm when Cersei abruptly stormed out, presumably in search of her eldest son, but now that she was alone in the relative safety of her room, Sansa's control finally slipped. She leaned against the barred door for a moment to catch her breath before turning to find a lit lantern sitting on the table. In her addled state, it didn't occur to her to question this convenient light. She picked it up and walked to her dresser, set it down beside the looking glass and stared at her reflection. She was surprised at how much older she looked after months of imprisonment in the Red Keep. Her face was drawn, almost gaunt. The last of her child's softness long since faded. Sansa turned away from this unsettling vision._

_ A sickly green glow came in through the cracks between the window shutters. That must be the Wildfire she heard about. She could make out the sounds of battle beyond the castle walls: clashing steel, clanging armor, shouts and screams. Sansa resisted the urge to cover her ears. _Lord Stannis and his men will be here soon_, she told herself, _He will let me leave this place. He will send me home._ A lump rose in her throat. For so long all she wanted was to leave her bleak and stifling life at Winterfell for the splendor of Kings Landing. How stupid she'd been! A silly girl with a head full of songs and daydreams of marrying her handsome prince and becoming queen. Sansa soon learned the hard way what childish fancies these all were._

_ Sansa noticed something on her bed that brought a sad smile to her face. The doll her father bought for her after King Robert forced him to kill Lady. A heartfelt, if misguided, attempt at showing his remorse. Sansa remembered her ungrateful reaction to the gift and felt a stab of regret. If only she could tell him how sorry she was for her harsh words and that she had forgiven him for killing her direwolf. She understood now that he had no choice._

_ She picked up the doll with a sad smile. It truly was finely made, its face carefully painted on, dressed in colorful satin and silk, with real hair instead of thread. She would have adored such a doll when she was little. Now she treasured it as her father's last gift to her._

_ "The lady is starting to panic."_

_ Sansa gasped and spun towards the unexpected voice. There, sitting in the deep shadows, sat Sandor Clegane. Was he there all this time, watching her?_

_ "What are you doing here?" Sansa asked, glad that she didn't stammer in fear. He would have mocked her for it._

_ "Not here for long," he muttered with a weariness she'd never heard in his tone before, "I'm going."_

_ "Where?" she blurted._

_ "Someplace that isn't burning," he looked at her sidelong, his scars somehow more pronounced in the half-light, "North, might be. Could be."_

_ Sansa blinked, trying to process his words. "What about the king?"_

_ Sandor scoffed quietly, "He can die just fine on his own." He took a swig from a flask that Sansa hadn't noticed until now. That must be why he was talking like this, she decided. People often behaved strangely when in their cups._

_ The Hound abruptly stood and stepped closer to her. Sansa fought the urge to retreat from him. She clutched the all but forgotten doll in her hands like a protective talisman. But for once, the words that came from him held no sense of menace. If anything, he sounded like he was trying to reassure her. "I can take you with me. Take you to Winterfell."_

_ Sansa tensed as a flicker of hope rose in her, in spite of herself._

_ "I'll keep you safe," Sandor promised solemnly, "Do you want to go home?"_

Yes_, she wanted to scream, but instead heard herself parroting Shae's words, "I'll be safe here. Stannis won't hurt me."_

_ The words angered him. He grabbed her by the arm and Sansa cringed. "Look at me," he growled. Sansa forced herself to raise her eyes. The expression on his scarred face was not what she expected to see. It wasn't rage. She wasn't sure how to describe it._

_ "Stannis is a killer," he grimly told her, "The Lannisters are killers. Your father was a killer. Your brother is a killer. Your sons will be killers someday." He let go of her arm and straightened with a heavy sigh. "The world is built by killers. So you'd better get used to looking at them."_

_ It was then that it came to her, something she'd known for some time but did not dare let herself believe until now. And with that realization, her fear of him melted away. "You won't hurt me."_

_ Sandor gazed at her for a long moment, then something like a smile pulled the corners of his mouth. "No, Little Bird, I won't hurt you." And with that, he turned away from her, walked over to the door, and unbolted it._

_ Sansa watched him leaving, a thousand words lodged in her throat. She wanted to beg him not to leave her here. She wanted him to take her away from this nightmarish place. She wanted to tell him how she wished he would rescue her like a hero from one of those foolish songs she once adored. But Sansa had spent her entire young life letting others make life-changing decisions for her. Let them tell her how to behave, how to dress, who to marry. No one, however well-meaning, had ever given her a choice. It never occurred to her that she had a _right_ to choose. Yet now Sandor was giving her what was probably the most important choice of her life, and she was powerless to make it. She just stood there, frozen in an agony of indecision._

_ The door to her chamber opened with the faintest creak and Sandor stepped through it. Once he turned the corner, Sansa knew she would never see him again._

_ "Wait." Her plea was faint, barely more than a whisper. But he heard._

* * *

It had been over a month since it last snowed. The adults murmured the shared hope that it was a sign that winter was finally coming to an end. The season was everything they'd dreaded, bitter cold and continual blizzards, the sky forever hidden behind thick clouds. The roads leading from the Northern village of Oldtree became impassable, leaving them totally cut off from the outside world, save for the occasional raven. During the worst years, the sky was so black many feared the sun had disappeared forever. The Long Night, they called it. A time of great hardship and dread. Many didn't come out of it alive. Their bodies were always burned ("So they won't come back," some whispered ominously). Children born in this time knew nothing else. But eventually the sky became less and less gray, the snows petered off, and people no longer had to fear freezing to death moments after stepping out from their homes.

Catelyn dashed from the house with a sack clutched in one mittened hand, her coltish figure hidden under layers of thick homespun clothes and furs, leaving only her brown eyes exposed. She raced through the recently cleared streets and followed the path leading into the deep woods. There were others as well, women and girls and young boys, all quickly left behind because they were only walking. Catelyn never understood that. Why walk when you could run? Walking was so _slow_. Running was far more exciting.

The sounds of the woodcutters soon reached her ears and her pace quickened even more. She heard the heavy thud of axes, the burr of saws, a warning yell of "Timber!" followed by a loud groan and a crash as another tree was felled. Catelyn ran past the tethered rows of hardy thick-furred ponies used to haul the lumber back to the yard outside the village. Soon the men came into view. They wore fewer layers, in spite of the cold. Some even worked shirtless. Felling and cutting trees was hard work, and sweat was a dangerous thing if allowed to soak through one's clothes. Wet clothes in cold weather was an excellent way to bring on pneumonia. Only when the day's work was done would the men don their coats once again.

Cat scanned the laboring men until her eyes fixed on the largest among them. He wielded the biggest ax, gouging deep into the wood of the latest tree he would soon bring down. Like most of the other woodcutters, he was bare-chested, huge muscles bulging beneath his sweat-soaked skin. His long black hair was plastered to his face. Many found his look fearsome, with its terrible scars all along the right side of his face, but Cat had looked upon him her entire life and could never find him frightening.

"Papa!" she called.

The big man paused mid-swing and turned his head. On seeing the girl, he smiled and buried the ax blade into the tree trunk, leaving it there for the time being. He then grabbed his woolen shirt from where he'd hung it on a convenient branch and slipped it on as he approached her. Others began to put their axes and saws aside as well, knowing that with Catelyn's arrival, the rest would soon follow. They all gathered around the large braziers kept burning throughout the day and seated themselves on logs arranged around them.

As she neared the fire's warmth, Cat pushed back her furred hood and tugged down the muffler that covered the lower half of her face. She had her father's black hair and brown eyes, and her mother's delicate features. She handed her father the sack she'd brought. Inside was a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, a small jug of brown ale, and a hardy winter apple preserved in crystallized honey. The bread had been hot from the oven when Catelyn's mother packed it, but thanks to its short trip through the frigid winter, it was now pleasantly warm. While her father dug in, the rest of the women and youngfolk arrived with the other woodcutters' midday meals. Most left as soon as they handed over the food, but Cat continued to sit with her father while he ate. There was a comfortable silence between them which neither felt the need to break. When he got to the apple, her father pulled out a knife to cut it in half and share it with her. Cat chewed happily on the sweet treat.

The meal finished, her father put the empty ale bottle into the sack and handed it back to her. "Thank your mother for me," he said, as always, and kissed her forehead.

Catelyn nodded and got to her feet, pulled up her muffler and hood, and trotted back towards the village.

In the square she paused to regard the massive weirwood which grew at its heart, Oldtree's namesake. When the first woodcutters came, they built their homes around it. The Old Man, they called it, for the face carved in its trunk. The bark was wrinkled around it's eerily human features. Blood-red sap ran from its squinted eye-slits, long since dried to crimson streaks. Cat knew that people found the Old Man's face disquieting, but she always thought it looked like a jolly grandfather laughing so hard he was crying. She loved the Old Man, its bone-white bark, its startling red leaves, and how it towered above the tallest buildings. Unable to resist, she left the lunch sack at the base of the trunk and hauled herself up in the weirwood's branches. She clambered up and up, as agile as a squirrel, until the branches started to bow under her weight. From this precarious perch she could see for miles beyond the village. The forest stretched out to the distant mountains, the overcast sky enveloping the highest peaks. It was hard to believe there were other places beyond all this, villages and towns and cities, filled with more people than she'd ever imagined, or so her parents said. Maybe with winter ending she would get to see some of them one day.

Cat squinted at a black speck in the distance that gradually got bigger. After a while she was able to make out wings and heard a faint cawing. A raven! It had been a long time since the last raven arrived from the outside world. The bird glided past so close she could've reached out and touched the edge of its wing. She twisted her head to watch it disappear into the small rookery Maester Tolbert kept. Catelyn quickly descended to the ground, grabbed the sack she'd left by the trunk, and ran to her family's cottage.

Eddard, the oldest boy at five years, and three-year-old Morden were playing with wooden toys by the hearth: a horse and a wolf, both with wheels for feet, a raven whose stiff wings flapped when a string at its back was pulled, and a little woodcutter with its own little ax. Zander, the baby, sat on a blanket a short distance away, babbling happily while he stacked intricately carved wooden blocks. Eddard and Morden were both big for their ages, taking after their father in size. Eddard had their mother's coloring, auburn hair and blue eyes. Morden also had blue eyes, but their father's black hair. Zander had brown eyes like their father, and the wispy hair on his head was light brown.

Their mother watched over the boys from her chair while she worked on her sewing. Cat's mother did the most beautiful embroidery. Women in the village often traded goods for her work. Catelyn's was almost as good, but the kinds of images she liked to sew weren't very popular. Instead of pretty flowers or sigils or images of heroic deeds from beloved songs, Cat's embroidery depicted woodland animals going about their (sometimes embarrassingly graphic) business, or the garishly laughing face of the Old Man, or images of everyday village life which no one else seemed to find worth commemorating. Her mother was just grateful to have her do something that kept her in one place for a while instead of flitting about gods knew where.

"There you are," her mother looked up from her sewing and smiled, "I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost."

Catelyn quickly shed her heavy coat and hung it on a nearby peg on the wall, then kicked off her boots. "I saw a raven," she declared, "It swooped right by me. It was this close!" She held her hand out at arm's length.

"The raven was flying that low to the ground?"

Cat paused, realizing her error. "Um..."

Her mother sighed. "You were up in the tree again. Cat, you know how it worries me when you climb so high. What if you were to fall?"

The girl frowned and drew herself up. "I _never_ fall!"

For some reason, her outraged statement made her mother laugh in that sad way she did sometimes and her gaze had a faraway look.

"Mum?" Catelyn asked.

Her mother shook herself. "It's nothing. You just reminded me of someone for a moment."

"Who?"

Her mother lowered her eyes and slowly shook her head. "It doesn't matter. It was no one you knew." She abruptly set her sewing aside and rose from her seat. "Keep an eye on your brothers, please. I need to start heating the water for your father's bath."

"Alright." Cat watched her mother's retreating back with a mild sense of frustration. For most of her young life she accepted things without question, but lately she'd started noticing things about her parents, secret looks and fleeting expressions, or words exchanged that held meaning only for them. Sometimes one of them would mention something or someone Cat was unfamiliar with, but when she asked about them they always brushed her questions aside. Their secrecy was starting to aggravate her.

Cat sighed and plopped herself down on the floor beside Zander. The baby grinned and held a block out to her. Cat took it. "Thanks."

Her husband bought the tub for her years ago as a wedding gift. Ironic, since he was the one who ended up using it the most. While grateful to be one of the few in the village to possess an actual bathtub, heating enough water to fill it was a long process that Sansa was not terribly fond of. It almost made her miss the days when she had servants to do this for her. In between heating big pots of water, she checked the stew that she'd had simmering over the kitchen fire for most of the day. It was monotonous fare made mostly from potatoes, with a handful of dried vegetables and a tiny amount of salted beef. These seldom-varied stews were a staple meal for Northern households during winter as a way to stretch dwindling resources. Sansa had grown quite adept over the years at livening them up with the precious spices she hoarded like gold.

She heard the door open with a thud and the characteristic heavy footfalls of her husband. Little voices rose in a chorus of excited papas and the baby let out a deafening squeal. Smiling, Sansa made her way into the mainroom in time to see her husband hang up his coat while the little ones clung to his legs. Catelyn stood a little further back holding Zander. The baby's chubby arms were outstretched, tiny fingers grasping at the big man.

His coat hung, Sandor bent down to kiss each of the boys atop their heads before sitting down on the bench by the door to remove his boots. Sansa could see the weariness in his features. Felling trees all day was hard work for any man, and her husband often pushed himself the hardest, with good reason. As was common practice for woodcutters, he put his mark on each tree he brought down, so that when the logs were eventually delivered to the sawmill, he received a commission for those that were his. With a wife and four children to provide for, Sandor was motivated to put his mark on as many logs as he could.

Once his boots were off, Sandor smiled and accepted the baby from his daughter. Zander shrieked happily as he was lifted over his father's head and then tossed even higher - only a couple of inches, but to the infant he might as well have been flying. Sandor chuckled and lowered his youngest son into his arms, kissing his downy curls. He then handed the child back to Catelyn and made his way towards his wife.

Sansa greeted her husband with a brief, heartfelt kiss. "Your bath is nearly ready," she told him.

Sandor nodded, looking even more tired than he had moments ago. He followed her back into the kitchen where she started filling the tub with the last of the heated water. While Sansa prepared the bath, Catelyn came in and began doling the simmering stew into bowls and carrying them back out to the mainroom and arranging them at the big table where they all took their meals. The children would eat while their mother helped their father bathe, as was routine. Their parents would have their own supper after.

Sandor stripped out of his sawdust and sweat-stained clothes, handing them over to his wife to put with the dirty laundry. He then slowly lowered himself into the steaming tub. He groaned loudly as the heat worked its way into his tired and cramped muscles. Sansa knelt beside him and used a washcloth and soap to gently scrub the day's grime from his body. He told her more than once, when all this was new to them, that she didn't need to do this for him. To which she retorted with a teasing smile, "You are gone from me all day, my love. Let me have this opportunity to appreciate you."

It startled him every time she said such things. Even now, after all these years, he still had no idea what in the seven hells she saw in him that was worth appreciating. He was old and gruff and ugly, a killer and a brute. The only good thing he ever did in his miserable life was smuggle Sansa out of Kings Landing during the Battle of Blackwater, and even that wasn't a complete success. He'd given his word that he would get her back to Winterfell, and instead they were here, scraping by in a backwoods village at the arse-end of nowhere. How could a high-born girl such as her ever be happy in this sort of life?

Sandor started at the feel of the washcloth rubbing at the skin between his eyes. "What're you doing?"

His wife smirked. "Scrubbing away that brooding frown on your face. It doesn't become you."

He snorted. "Some might say it's my best feature."

"Oh, you most certainly possess better features." Her eyes roved over him with a brazenness that would have mortified her when she was a sheltered lord's daughter. Sandor chuckled and cupped the back of her head with one large hand, pulling her in for a kiss. When their lips part Sansa rested her forehead against his. "Cat told me she saw a raven."

"Oh?" Perhaps it brought news about the mountain passes. With the snows no longer constantly falling, there was a chance for the passes to be cleared enough for them to start transporting logs down to the sawmill in the holdfast of Ironoak and bring in fresh supplies.

"Maybe winter is finally ending." The innocent hope in Sansa's voice reminded him of the girl she once was.

Sandor ran his fingers through the auburn strands that had come loose from the braid she habitually wore. "Maybe so, Little Bird," he said, because what harm was there in letting her hope?

Zander slept in a crib in their parents' bedchamber. The other three children climbed the ladder in the mainroom that brought them to the loft above. Originally meant for storage, it provided a surprisingly cozy place to bed down, thanks to the drafts of warm air that rose from the hearth below.

Sansa climbed up with them to tuck them in. Their father was already asleep in the bed they shared, his exhaustion from the day finally overtaking him. Sansa said her goodnights to the boys, then went to draw the covers over her only daughter. She smiled at the sight of Catelyn hugging an old doll to her, its white painted face faded with age, its finery of satin and silk now tattered, the human hair that adorned its head thinned away to straggly wisps.

"Always shunning the things most girls love, and yet you continue to sleep with this," Sansa touched the doll's almost featureless head.

Cat shrugged. "I've always slept with it. I can't sleep without it."

Sansa smiled and kissed the girl's brow. "Sweet dreams, love."

"Mum?" Cat peered up at her in that cautious way that meant she was about to ask for something her mother probably wouldn't like, "If the passes are clear, will Papa go with the logs to Ironoak?"

"He might," Sansa replied cautiously, "Several men will be sent with the convoy. Why?"

"D'you think I could go with him? Some of my friends said they're going and a few of them are younger than me." Catelyn sat up, her expression earnest. "Please? I've never seen anyplace but here. I'll do everything I'm told and won't wander off, I promise."

Sansa opened her mouth, then closed it. Her first impulse was to say no. Life in Oldtree was harsh at times, but it was far safer than the rest of the world. She knew all too well how easily the world savaged a child's innocence and she did not want that for her daughter. But she also did not want to choke the girl's spirit by keeping her caged.

"We will discuss it with your father tomorrow. If he agrees, then you may go." Her conscience twinged at passing the responsibility onto her husband like that. If Sandor said no, he would be the villain. She shook her head. "If we _both_ agree," she amended.

Cat smiled and lay back down, satisfied for the moment. "Thank you, Mum."

"Don't thank me yet," she brushed a strand of hair back from the girl's forehead, "Nothing's been decided. The answer may very well be no."

"But it isn't no now," her daughter reasoned.

Sansa laughed. "Good night, Catelyn."

"G'night, Mum."

Sansa descended the ladder, banked the fire in the hearth, then went to the bedchamber she shared with her husband. It was a relatively small room, most of which was taken up with the huge bed constructed specially to accommodate Sandor's frame. He already lay there under the blankets and furs, apparently asleep. Sansa gazed upon him in the flickering light of the candles on the ledge. She then peered into the crib situated at the foot of the bed and smiled at the sight of baby Zander dreaming away. Thank the gods he was finally sleeping through the nights without interruption. After a moment she turned away to changed out of her clothes into a shift. The fabric was homespun, far thicker and warmer than she shifts she used to wear back in Winterfell and Kings Landing. She left her woolen stockings on as well for extra warmth. She then blew out the candles and climbed into bed, curling up with her husband's slumbering form. He wore a long nightshirt and nothing else. She could feel the heat radiating from him. So many cold nights his body heat comforted her. Sansa threw an arm around his waist and snuggled close. Sandor shifted, then rolled onto his back and put his arm around her, tucking her head into the hollow of his shoulder.

"Did I wake you?" Sansa asked.

Her husband's deep voice replied, "Wasn't quite asleep. Can't sleep as well without you."

_I can't sleep without it_, Catelyn's words from moments ago echoed in Sansa's thoughts. "Cat said she wants to go with the convoy when the roads clear." She felt his muscles tense beneath her.

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her we'd discuss it tomorrow."

Sandor sighed. "You should have said no."

"We can't hide away forever."

"Damn right we can. Why else did we settle here in the middle of nowhere?"

"It's been more than ten years, my love," Sansa argued gently, "Even if there is anyone left who remembers us, they must have given us up for dead long ago. They certainly wouldn't know anything about our children."

"It's not just old enemies I worry about," Sandor brooded, "The world is an awful place."

His wife's fingers traced his features, both scarred and whole. "Not everything about it is awful. Maybe it's time we let her see for herself, at least a little."

Sandor hated it, but he knew she was right. His "Little Cat" was an active child, always running about. The village would soon be too small to contain her. Wasn't it better that she learn something of what lay beyond its safety, a little at a time, and therefore prepare her to protect herself later? Sandor growled. Life was so much simpler when all his problems could be settled with a sword. His frustration mounting, he sought to ease it the best way he knew how.

Sansa giggled as her husband abruptly pinned her down and started nipping at her throat. She bit her lip to silence herself. It wouldn't do to wake Zander in his crib.

Sandor sat up on his knees to quickly strip off his nightshirt, then helped his wife slip out of her shift. With the room shrouded in darkness, he relied on touch, his large hands roaming over the familiar swells and curves of her body. After four children, Sansa was no longer the willowy maiden, but a woman with full breasts and a pronounced flair to her hips. If anything, these changes aroused Sandor even more than her youthful figure once had. He bent down to take a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently. Sansa was starting to wean their youngest child and her breasts were quite tender as a result. He switched to her other breast and tasted traces of her mother's milk.

Sansa tangled her fingers in his hair and sighed. Her legs parted until she cradled his hips between them. His aroused manhood pressed into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. It did not take much, only a slight adjustment, and he slid home with an ease of long familiarity. Sansa raised her knees and hooked her heels on the backs of his thighs. She felt and heard his rasping breaths as he pressed his forehead to hers and began thrusting. It wasn't long before she was biting her lip to hold back her cries of pleasure. She clung to him, her fingernails threatening to break the skin of his back. The sharp pain elicited a grunt from him and a quickening of his pace. Sansa whimpered.

"That's it," his voice was a low rasp, "Sing for me, Little Bird."

Those words in that rumbling voice were all it took to push her over the edge. Sansa's mouth fell open and her husband's lips quickly covered hers, swallowing her scream. Sandor groaned, a deep growl that vibrated through his broad chest, and shuddered as he spent himself in her.

He managed to roll off of her before he collapsed. Sansa snuggled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin. Sansor's powerful arms wrapped themselves around her. Their breathing gradually slowed as sleep finally began to overtake them. Sated and content, they held each other throughout the rest of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Well, I've got quite a few follows, which is cool, and traffic stats is already at well over 100 readers, which is even cooler. (Thanks!) But only a couple of reviews so far... Odd.

Anyhoo, here's the next chapter. :-)

**Disclaimer: _Game of Thrones _and its characters belong to George R.R. Martin and HBO. I'm only borrowing them for a while.**

_It wasn't only the attack itself that haunted her long after it was over, but how swiftly it all came upon them. One moment the royal party and its escort was walking through a crowd of jeering smallfolk, and the next there was rioting. And all because a stupid cow pie was hurled at the king. Sansa remembered Joffrey, his face smeared with cow shit, screaming for the deaths of every person there. Even she, naïve girl that she was, realized how foolhardy his words were. Their armed guards were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of enraged, desperate people. It was all they could do to cut a swath through the mob to reach the safety of the Red Keep. More than a few hapless nobles didn't make it. Sansa could still remember the shrieks of the fat septon as a swarm of emaciated men tore him to pieces._

_ She didn't have any sword-bearing men protecting her. All she had were her maids. They tried to keep her shielded between them, but they soon lost each other in the chaos. All around Sansa were filthy bodies dressed in rags, skinny with starvation and fueled by rage born of sheer desperation. Sansa could have pitied them, but all she felt at that moment was terror. Terror which multiplied when she suddenly found herself confronting half a dozen men with mad eyes locked on her. She ran, not thinking about where she was going, only trying to get away. They chased her through a narrow alley and eventually caught her in what appeared to be an empty stable. A hard slap from one of her attackers sent her sprawling in the moldy straw. Rough hands clawed at her and a voice hissed in her ear, "You ever been fucked, little girl?"_

_ Never had she fought so hard, but it was futile. She was only a weak little highborn girl. She didn't have the strength to stand up to even one of these hard men, let alone four. All too soon they had her pinned down, her dress torn and legs held apart. Still she struggled, screaming and weeping, as one of the men knelt between her legs and fumbled with the laces of his trousers. She knew then that it was hopeless. No one would save her. These men would rape her and then kill her, and there was no one who would even care._

_ It was only in that instant when despair overwhelmed her that a massive shadow loomed behind her assailants and grabbed her would-be rapist, spinning him around and lifting him by the neck so his feet dangled. Sansa recalled years later the intense look in her savior's eyes. The same look he had whenever Joffrey subjected her to another beating. Only now he did not simply stand by with his gaze fixed ahead. This time Sandor gutted the attacker with his dagger and flung the body aside like so much trash. The second man he stabbed in the back before he could even rise to his feet. The third, the one who'd been holding Sansa's shoulders, tried to run, but Sandor caught him easily. All Sansa could see then was his broad back. She heard the man cry out, then a wet gurgle as the man's body collapsed. Sandor turned sidelong and sheathed his dagger in a single quick movement. For the briefest instant he stood unmoving, then he turned to her and it was like a different man stood before her. No longer the coldly efficient killer, he reached his hand out to her and said in a strangely comforting voice, "Alright now, Little Bird. You're alright."_

_ Sansa took his gloved hand without hesitation and quickly found herself hoisted over his shoulder and carried off. She glimpsed her final attacker, a shirtless bald man, huddled against a bale of straw in wide-eyed terror, ignored by the Hound who deemed him not worth the effort of killing._

_ Sansa was no longer afraid, even when Sandor drew his longsword to hack his way through the rioters to the Red Keep. She knew as long as he was with her, no one could harm her. Only when he finally put her down again did the fear return. She didn't want to let go of him, didn't want to be taken away. Only with him was she safe. Only him._

_ "The Little Bird is bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage, see to that cut."_

_ She wanted to him to stay with her, but the effort to speak was beyond her then. Exhaustion came over her, and it was all she could do to stay upright when her maids helped her to her feet and led her back to her chambers, away from her protector._

* * *

Travel of any kind always held risks. Some were unavoidable, such as sudden changes in weather, or rockfalls, or washed-out roads. Others could be prepared for, like packs of winter-starved wolves, or bandits, all made especially desperate by the unforgiving season. For this reason, the convoys sent from Oldtree always included armed men.

Catelyn and her brothers watched in fascination as their father opened the dusty old trunk none of them were allowed to touch and pulled out a long object wrapped in oilcloth. He pulled away the heavy fabric, revealing an impressive longsword. A smaller man would have needed both hands to wield it, but Sandor hefted it in one hand without trouble. He drew it from its sheath - to the appreciative gasps of the children - and tested the blade's edge with his thumb. Still sharp enough to cleave a man, if necessary. There was a time when he would have hoped for that necessity, but no longer. His thirst for blood had waned with time and the births of his daughter and sons.

"Can we see it, Papa?" Eddard asked.

Sandor hesitated, then brought the sword closer to them. The youngsters' eyes widened even more as they took in the sheer size of the weapon. Swords were uncommon in the village. The only blades they were familiar with belonged on axes, and they were used to hew nothing more threatening than tree trunks. Morden reached out a chubby hand to touch the sword and Sandor pulled it away. "This isn't for children's hands," he admonished.

"Did you kill anyone with it?" Catelyn asked, far too eagerly for Sandor's comfort. He abruptly shoved the lid of the trunk closed and stood with the re-sheathed longsword in hand. "I need to go practice," he told them, then pointed at the trunk, "You are still forbidden to open it."

"Yes, Papa," the children replied obediently.

An impromptu practice area had been set up in a cleared area just outside the village. Crude figures of wood or stuffed bags of straw and twigs were clumsily hacked at by out-of-practice men wielding battered old swords. Others sparred each other with lengths of wood roughly carved into sword-shapes. Some were surprisingly adept at fighting once they warmed up to it. But then again, Sandor wasn't the only man with a questionable past to have taken up residence in Oldtree. Cutthroats, bandits, wildlings, bastards and runaways - as long as they worked hard and kept the peace, none cared about their pasts. It was a fact Sandor counted on when he and Sansa first arrived. Here, they were known as Sturm and Dyanne Edger. Those were the names they gave, and no one saw any reason to dispute them. Just as no one questioned "Dyanne's" highborn speech (which she was never quite able to shed) or "Sturm's" obvious skills at swordplay. After ten years of surviving winter with their neighbors, none of those details really mattered anymore.

Sandor practiced first on one of the wooden figures, just to get the feel of swinging the sword again. It was strange how unfamiliar once totally unconscious movements now felt. But after a while, muscle-memory kicked in and soon the wood chips were flying under the longsword's assault. Once his confidence was stronger, he set aside the now dulled blade (need to hone it later, he thought to himself) and picked up one of the wooden practice swords.

Hours later, when the last sparring partner limped away to the good-natured jeers of those watching, Sandor picked up his longsword and stormed off in disgust. Not at the others - not one of them had received a proper day's training a day in his life - but at himself. His reflexes were dulled, the weapon no longer felt like an extension of his arm, and muscles long disused to such activity were cramped from exertion. All to be expected, but still, the distant part of him that was still the Hound sneered at how soft he'd become.

Sandor barged into the house, startling Sansa and eliciting a surprised - but not displeased - squeal from baby Zander. Sandor paused and glanced around. "Where are the children?"

"At their lessons with Maester Tolbert." Sansa had insisted their children learn at least the basics of reading, writing, and numbers. Fortunately, the village's maester was more than happy to act as tutor, and the children quite enjoyed their afternoon lessons.

Sandor grunted and headed for the corner where he kept the trunk full of his old possessions. Sansa set aside the stockings she was darning and followed him, pausing to pick up the baby where he played on a blanket on the floor. She could tell something was troubling her husband. "What's wrong?"

Her husband rummaged through the trunk. "Can't find my gods-damned oilstone, for one," he grumbled.

Sansa leaned down to move aside an age-cracked leather jerkin and picked up the palm-sized object hidden beneath it. "Is this it?"

Sandor scowled and took it from her without a murmur of thanks. He rose from his knees with a grunt and went to sit in the oversized chair constructed to accommodate his large frame. He unsheathed the longsword and proceeded to hone the blade with the oilstone. The high-pitched song of the metal brought back a lot of memories, few of them pleasant.

Switching the baby to her other hip, Sansa approached her husband. "What troubles you, my love?"

There was a time when he would have barked some cruel retort to get her to leave him alone, and a time when she would have been too timid to approach him to begin with. But those times were long gone, and they were no longer the people they once were.

"Old age troubles me," he growled, eyes focused on his task, "I'm slow and clumsy."

"Surely you are skilled enough to fight off any brigands that should attack the convoy."

Sandor snorted disdainfully. "They'd be little more than gnats to swat aside. But if we were to encounter someone who actually knows how to use a damned sword, I'd be hard-pressed to fight them."

"Why would anyone like that come after you?" his wife asked, "No one knows who we once were."

He looked at her sidelong, his expression deadly serious. "I'll not take that chance. I will keep practicing until I'm as able as I ever was, or close enough to it."

"Can you accomplish this before the convoy leaves? That's less than a week's time."

"I'll keep practicing as we travel, when we make camp."

Sansa placed her free hand on his shoulder, making him pause in his honing. He looked up to find her quietly smiling. "You'll protect her," she declared, confident, "Just as you protected me."

Sandor frowned. "What makes you think I decided to bring her along?"

His wife's smile broadened. "Do you deny it, my lord?"

"I'm no lord," he snapped, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, softening his words. He turned his attention back to sharpening his blade. "Do you want me to take her along with the convoy?" he asked in a more subdued voice.

Sansa gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I want her to be safe, but I also want her to be happy. She won't be happy in a cage any more than I was." She bent down to kiss his temple. "There is no one I trust more to keep her from harm than you."

Sandor looked at his wife, saw the truth in her eyes. "You always gave your trust too easily," he chided.

"When I was young," she agreed, "But not now. You have earned my trust again and again, from the moment you first lied to protect me from Joffrey's wrath. I will fret when Catelyn leaves, as any mother would for her daughter, but I will not be afraid, because she will have you there to shield her. So all we truly need to worry about is that you look after _yourself_. Can you manage that, husband?"

Sandor chuckled wryly. "Aye, Little Bird, that I can manage."

"Good." Satisfied, Sansa walked away to place Zander back on the blanket with his toys and returned to her sewing.

* * *

Maesters, as a rule, were only to be found in holdfasts and castles, serving the lords and their families, and rarely interacting with the smallfolk. The fact that Oldtree had a maester of their own was pure happenstance. Maester Tolbert was on his way to Ironoak to assist and eventually succeed the holdfast's current aging maester. He was only days from his destination when winter's first snowstorm (the same one which Sandor and Sansa were caught in, in fact) swept through the mountains and Tolbert was separated from the convoy he traveled with. By the time he finally stumbled upon the isolated village, both he and his mule were nearly dead and most of the caged ravens he brought along completely so. When the blizzard finally ended, the mountain roads and passes were utterly impassable, so Maester Tolbert sent one of his surviving ravens to Oldtown to explain the situation and resigned himself to spending the winter in the village.

Ironoak's loss was Oldtree's gain. With a maester present, the villagers enjoyed superior medicines and knowledge they never would have known otherwise. He treated all manner of ailments, aided the midwives in difficult deliveries, gave sage council to the village elders, and offered a superior education to the local children.

Catelyn and her brothers were not the only children to take advantage of Maester Tolbert's lessons. Some afternoons he had as many as twenty small bodies squeezed into his solar. It wasn't the lessons themselves that drew them so much as the promise of a story after, provided they were diligent enough in their studies. The maester would seat himself in his comfortable old chair before the hearth while the youngsters sat on the floor all around him, their eyes riveted to him while he regaled them with tales of the First Men, the Age of Heroes, and even the White Walkers. Often one of the smaller children would sit on his knee during story time. Cat recalled being little enough to be one of those children. She remembered the comforting drone of his voice, the warm scratchiness of his brown robes, the smells of old books and medicinal herbs that clung to him. Sometimes she would play with the chain he always wore around his neck, fascinated by the colors and textures of the different links.

Today's tale was of more recent events: the story of Robert Baratheon's rebellion against the Mad King Aerys Targaryen. Even though all this took place within their parents' lifetimes, to the gathered children this was no different than any other exciting tale from history. The people Maester Tolbert spoke of were no more than characters, the events and places described too far away to affect their sheltered lives. When the maester reached the part of the sacking of Kings Landing, Cat's hand shot up.

"Yes, Catelyn?" the salt-and-pepper-haired man asked patiently.

"You said the Lannister men killed all the Targaryens."

"Indeed they did."

"Even the women?"

Tolbert seemed oddly pleased by that question. It was not the sort of detail his students normally focused on when listening to him recite these tales. "Even the women," he nodded, "And the children as well."

"But why?" Cat blurted, "They couldn't have hurt anyone. They weren't even in the fighting!"

The maester offered a sad smile. "There are several reasons. For one, Robert Baratheon's hatred of the Targaryens was all-encompassing at that point. It didn't matter whether they were man, woman, or child. They were all equally guilty in his eyes. For another, any survivors would have been able to make a claim on the Iron Throne, since they would, technically, be the legitimate heir to the Seven Kingdoms. In order to prevent this, the entire bloodline had to be wiped out."

"But it didn't end!" a boy declared.

"No, Mikal, two managed to escape across the Narrow Sea. King Aerys's son, Viserys, and his daughter, Daenerys. Viserys was killed years later by the Dothraki, but Daenerys lived on to bring dragons back into the world and eventually reclaim the Iron Throne."

Tolbert's young audience perked up at the mention of dragons. Their piping voices begged him to tell them more about those fantastic creatures, but the maester smilingly demurred. "Not today, little ones. It is time for you all to return to your homes. But I promise, tomorrow I shall tell you all you wish to know about dragons."

There was some whining and grumbling, but the children obediently left the maester's home.

Catelyn led Morden by the hand while Eddard walked freely beside her. She was more subdued than normal, still mulling over what Maester Tolbert told her about the Lannisters killing all the Targaryens. She couldn't understand how anyone would do something as awful as kill helpless children, no matter who their parents were. And so many of those killers were said to be knights, but how could that be? Knights were supposed to be good and heroic. At least, that's what all the songs said. Cat never cared too much for the songs other girls liked, but she knew enough about them to know that slaughtering families was never mentioned, unless it was done by monsters or villains. Never knights. It made her wonder what else the songs got wrong.

When they reached home, Papa was seated in his big chair with the longsword across his lap. He slid the blade into its sheath and set it down so it leaned against his chair. "Cat, come over here for a moment. I need to have a word with you."

Catelyn dutifully went to her father while her brothers trotted off to play with their toys. She came to a halt before him, wondering if she should be looking contrite about something. "Yes, Papa?"

Sandor leaned forward, elbows on his knees, to bring his gaze level with his daughter's. "Your mother and I have discussed it, and we've decided to let you come along with me in the convoy."

Cat beamed and threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you! Thank you!" She planted a noisy kiss on his scarred cheek for emphasis. Her father chuckled as he disentangled himself from her embrace. "There are still some rules you need to know," he told her in all seriousness, "You're not to leave my sight, even when we reach Ironoak. There will be no wandering off. If you need to take a piss, you tell me and I'll get one of the women to take you." Not all woodcutters were men, and some of these hardy women would be in the convoy as well. "And if we run into trouble," Sandor continued, "you do exactly what I say, no arguments, no questions."

His daughter nodded. "Yes, Papa." Then her solemn expression cracked into a huge grin. "I'm going on the convoy!" She practically hopped with excitement.

Sandor couldn't help but smile at her eagerness. "Aye, Little Cat. It should be quite an adventure for you." _Hopefully not a dangerous one_, he thought. Something must have showed in his expression, because his daughter hugged him again.

"I'm not scared, Papa. I know you'll keep me safe."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Dialog in the flashback is taken from the Season 1 episode "The Kings Road"

**Disclaimer: _Game of Thrones _and its characters are the products of George R.R. Martin's imagination and HBO's backing. None of it's mine.**

_He'd noticed her the moment King Robert's party arrived at Winterfell. She stood out amongst her family, servants, and smallfolk all gathered to welcome their king and his people to their castle. Even her mother, born a Tully of the Riverlands, blended in with the others more. The eldest Stark girl was tall for her age, willow-thin, with the fairest skin he'd ever seen and long coppery hair of a lighter shade than her mother's. Her dress was plain compared to what the highborn women wore in Kings Landing, but suited her well in this Northern place. Her bright blue eyes were immediately drawn to Prince Joffrey and she blushed prettily when he smiled at her. No doubt all sorts of romantic notions were flitting through her pretty head._

_ Little does she know, the Hound thought sourly._

_ He kept his distance at first, mainly watching her from the corner of his eye whenever she walked past. He saw her far more often when her father brought her and her younger sister along on the journey back to King's Landing, walking about camp with that half-grown direwolf at her side. Sandor found it amusing the way she led the animal around by a length of soft leather cord looped around its neck. The queen had insisted on this, saying such a beast was too dangerous to allow to run around loose with her children present. As if the animal couldn't easily snap that cord like a thread if it so chose._

_ It was on a rare sunny day that Sandor watched the Stark girl walking with her direwolf. She seemed distracted by the lovely turn of the weather, for she didn't notice Ser Ilyn Payne cross her path until she nearly walked right into him. The girl gave a start and stammered a hasty apology to the royal executioner. Naturally, Ser Ilyn did not respond, but merely glared at the flustered girl with those unsettling, nearly colorless eyes._

_ Sandor was never quite certain why he decided to step in at that tense moment. The Stark girl spun around to find him standing directly behind her. If anything, her eyes became even wider at the sight of the Hound's grotesque features. Her direwolf, however, only sniffed the newcomer curiously, showing none of the tension the animal had displayed at encountering Ser Ilyn. The girl was too distracted to notice Lady's behavior, but Sandor did. It made him question the supposed intuition animals were said to possess regarding threatening men._

_ "Do I frighten you so much, girl?" Sandor asked with a grin, then nodded towards Ser Ilyn, "Or is it him there making you shake?"_

_ The executioner glared at the Hound. There was no love lost between them. "He frightens me, too," Sandor went on, "Look at that face." He gave a false shudder and almost laughed at the rising anger he saw in the mute's hard gaze._

_ The girl turned back to the executioner and managed a more formal apology. Ilyn Payne gave no reaction, merely marched past, glowering at her and Sandor all the while._

_ The Stark girl actually looked hurt. "Why won't he speak to me?"_

_ "He hasn't been very talkative these last twenty years," Sandor explained, "Not since the Mad King had his tongue removed with hot pincers."_

_ Who knew how the conversation might have gone had Prince Joffrey not chosen that moment to approach. He misinterpreted the girl's shyness as fear, and dismissed his bodyguard with a brusque, "Away with you, dog," that brought the tiniest hint of a frown to the Stark girl's face. It was there and gone in an instant, and therefore unnoticed._

_ Sandor bowed to his master and walked away. Only when his back was turned did he allow the scowl to twist his already mangled features. Someone should warn that girl about Joffrey. Sandor knew the prince better than anyone, having spent years in the boy's presence unblinded by extreme devotion as the queen was. The Hound knew that though his face - and often deeds - was horrific, it was the prince who was the true monstrosity. For a brief moment, he considered warning the girl himself, but quickly dismissed the notion. _Not your business, dog_, he told himself. She wouldn't believe him anyway, ugly thing that he was._

* * *

"Why does _she_ get to go?" Eddard whined after his parents made the announcement at the dinner table, "I'm big enough. I want to go, too!"

Morden, ever quick to follow his brother's lead, shouted, "Me too! Me too!"

"Inside voices," Sansa chided. The boys sheepishly quieted. "We need you to stay here, Ned," she went on to explain, "Someone has to be the man of the house while your father's away."

The five-year-old straightened in his chair. "An' it's me? I'm the man?"

His mother smiled. "You _are_ the eldest son," she reminded him.

The boy visibly puffed up and turned to his sister to boast, "I'm the man!"

"The man!" Morden agreed with equal enthusiasm.

Catelyn chewed her lip to avoid laughing at her little brothers. "You sure are, Eddie."

Thus mollified, Eddard offered no more complaints. For the next few days he strutted about, proclaiming to anyone he encountered that, "I'm the man while Papa's away!" Much to everyone's amusement.

Meanwhile, Cat's agitation grew as the day of the convoy's departure drew near. She'd already packed, unpacked, and re-packed several times and was anxious to _go_ already! But the days would not cooperate by passing any quicker.

Sandor, by contrast, seemed to grow more reluctant as time progressed. Still, he practiced at his swordplay diligently and helped the others chosen for the convoy to prepare.

Finally, the day of departure had arrived. There were numerous huge wagons loaded with rough-hewn logs of various types of wood, each pulled by teams of massive oxen all chewing placidly on their cuds as they waited for their drivers to urge them on. A couple of smaller wagons carried all their supplies as well as items contributed by various men and women to offer for sale in Ironoak's market square: wood carvings, woven baskets, some of Sansa's finer embroidery, and other such miscellany.

Those who were not riding in the wagons or walking alongside would be on horseback. Sandor was among those few. His black destrier, Stranger, had died six years ago, but not before the stallion managed to mate with a neighbor's workhorse to produce a large russet filly every bit as ill-tempered as her sire. The neighbor immediately foisted the animal off on Sandor, saying that he was the only one mad enough to handle such a demon. And he was not wrong. By some miracle Sandor managed to break the aptly-named Demon to the saddle and would now be riding her on the weeks-long journey. He was the only person Demon tolerated, aside from Catelyn. For whatever reason, she and the overly-spirited mount actually got along. The fact that the girl occasionally sneaked pieces of winter apple to the horse probably had something to do with it.

The entire village had turned out to see the convoy off. Sandor and Cat said their farewells to Sansa and the boys. Catelyn was surprised to discover a lump in her throat as she hugged everyone goodbye. This would be the first time in her life she'd ever been away from home and family, and even though she wanted to go, she found it hard to actually leave when the moment came. The fact that Sansa was visibly fighting tears didn't make it any easier.

Sandor kissed his wife, an intimacy he rarely displayed in sight of others. Their foreheads touched when the kiss ended and Sansa whispered, "Come back safely, husband." She did not need to remind him to protect their firstborn. She knew he would guard Catelyn with his life.

"Aye, Little Bird, I will," he promised. He then picked up baby Zander from her arms and lifted the child over his head one last time. The baby giggled, tiny hands patting his father's scarred face. Sandor marveled, as always, at his youngest child's natural cheeriness. How could such a happy boy come from him? Yet the resemblance between father and son was unquestionable (not that Sandor ever doubted his wife's fidelity). It was simply one of life's little miracles.

Sandor kissed his youngest son's downy head and handed him back to Sansa. He then knelt to embrace the other two boys. He solemnly admonished them to be good to their mother, and reminded Eddard of his new responsibilities. "Look out for your mother and brothers. I am trusting you to take care of them while I'm gone."

His eldest son nodded gravely. "I will, Papa."

Sandor lifted Catelyn to Demon's back, then mounted behind her. His longsword was worn at his back, the handle within easy reach of his right hand. With a final look at his family, he urged the horse to trot over to the procession of wagons which was already beginning its slow journey.

There were plenty of shouted farewells and more than a few tears as the convoy made its way down the newly cleared road that would eventually lead them to Ironoak. Cat leaned to the side so she could peer back at the slowly retreating village. She watched until a crick in her neck forced her to straighten. She looked at the long line of wagons and mounted men stretching out before her, and the twin ruts of the road stretching farther still until it vanished behind a rise. Ironoak Holdfast was less than a fortnight away as the raven flies. Unfortunately, they weren't ravens. The road followed the terrain's lead, curving and twisting around and between rocky peaks and crags. Treacherous in places, so she heard. It would take the better part of a month to reach their destination, which meant another month to return. Two months away from home. Catelyn was both excited and anxious at the prospect. She hoped it would be a great adventure, and that they would all return safely home to share the tale.

* * *

It was bitter cold the first night they made camp. Nothing compared to the Long Night, of course, but still unpleasant. None in the convoy expected any different, though. They were well prepared to cope with the harsh weather. The huge oxen were well adapted to such conditions. The horses only required some thick blankets to cover them. Everyone pitched their tents and built several fires within the circle of the wagons. Hot food was prepared and flagons were passed among the adults. A few men brought along instruments - a couple of lutes and a woodharp - and soon others' voices were raised in discordant song. It was a fun, companionable evening. Catelyn and the other children laughed and sneaked the occasional drink from a passing flagon while the adults pretended not to notice. Her father shunned the revelries, however. Choosing instead to join those outside the circle of wagons standing guard. No one was surprised at this. He always seemed to prefer his own company, when he wasn't with his family.

Cat left the warmth of the fires and ducked under the nearest wagon, coming up on the opposite side. She shivered in the night's chill and took a bite of the still-warm meat leftover from dinner. The pilfered wine she sipped earlier left her slightly lightheaded, though her stride remained steady as she walked down the line of wagons in search of her father. He was easy to spot, a towering silhouette in the darkness. "Papa," she whispered, coming up to him.

Sandor glanced down and wordlessly held out his arm for the girl to step under. He then lowered his hand to rest on her shoulder while she leaned on him.

"D'you want some of my sweetbread?" she asked while still chewing a mouthful.

Sandor shook his head. They stood in easy silence for a moment before Catelyn asked, "Why do they call it sweet_bread_ when it's meat?"

"I don't know," he replied. His eyes continued to rove the darkness beyond the campsite, alert for any hint of movement.

"They should call it sweetmeat instead," his daughter continued.

"There already is something called sweetmeat. A sort of candy," Sandor told her.

"Does it have meat in it?"

"No."

Catelyn pondered this, then snorted. "That's stupid."

Sandor smirked in agreement. "It's getting late," he told her, "You should ready yourself for bed."

The girl made a noise of protest. "Can't I stay up a little longer?"

"We'll break camp early tomorrow," Sandor warned.

"How early?"

"Before sunup, most likely."

Cat sighed. "Alright, I'll go to bed."

"There'll be other nights for sport, Little Cat."

"I know. Goodnight, Papa."

"Goodnight."

His side felt cold when she pulled away.

Later that night after his replacement came to relieve him at guard duty, Sandor crawled into the tent he and Cat shared. Catelyn was nothing but a shapeless lump beneath layers of blankets and furs, the faint sounds of her breathing the only noise to be heard. Sandor removed his boots and bundled himself into the bedroll beside her, his broad back pressed to hers. When he woke at predawn the next day, he discovered that he'd rolled onto his other side and found himself hugging his daughter's much smaller form to him. It brought back memories of when she was much younger and would often crawl into bed between him and Sansa. He kissed the top of her mussed head. "Time to wake up, Little Cat."

Catelyn whined and snuggled deeper into her cocoon of blankets. Sandor smiled, sat up, and abruptly yanked the covers away from her. The girl squealed at the sudden exposure to the cold air and curled into a tight ball. "Papa!"

"Get up, child. The world will not wait for you."

The girl let out an indignant huff and sat up, still clutching her doll. Her hair was a rat's nest perched comically atop her head. The way she glared up at him reminded him so much of her mother he wanted to laugh at her and embrace her all at once. Instead, he smoothed down her tangled black hair as best he could and told her to get dressed. They broke their fast with bread and cheese while packing away their things. Soon the convoy was mobile again.

The weeks of travel passed by largely without incident. Once a ragged band of poorly armed men was spotted in the distance, but they never tried to approach the large convoy. Once a pack of starveling wolves kept pace with them for the better part of a league before finally vanishing into the woods. The greatest hardship came when a period of warmer days caused the ground to thaw and the heavily laden wagons to become bogged in the softened earth. Long rows of planks were laid down in the ruts, allowing the wagons to plod along. Men were put to the task of retrieving the planks at the trailing end and rush ahead to lay them in front of the foremost wagon. It was a long and tiring task, but at least the wagons didn't go much slower than normal.

The two leaders of the convoy were a married couple named Bertra and Syman, both hard as nails with thick corded arms acquired from over twenty years of swinging axes. Rumor had it they used to be Wildlings. They certainly fit the part with their heavily scarred bodies and rough speech. They drove the frontmost wagon with their bevy of children riding in the back. They also had a cage of ravens given to them by Maester Tolbert. Every few days their eldest son, who'd been taught by the maester to write, would take down a message and send it out on one of the ravens to let Oldtree know about their progress. So far, the messages were fairly short.

Sometimes Cat rode with her father on Demon, sometimes she rode on the back of one of the wagons with some of the other children, and sometimes she walked alongside to stretch her legs. The terrain was both familiar, yet different from what she'd known her entire short life. She was rarely bored. There was always some chore to do, some new thing to investigate (well within view of her father, of course), or some unfamiliar sight to point out. The pockets of her roughspun dress and leggings bulged with interesting stones and discarded feathers found along the ground. Once she even found an owl pellet, a prize that made her the envy of all the other children.

Sandor's concerns waned as he watched his daughter continue to thrive during their journey. She never strayed far from the wagons, always remained in his sight, and found numerous ways to enjoy herself even when put to work. In the evenings when they made camp she babbled on about whatever adventures she had that day. So much like her mother, his Little Bird, chirping away at him. It made him homesick at times, thinking of his wife and sons waiting back in Oldtree, but he was glad to be sharing this experience with his firstborn.

They reached the mountain pass towards the end of the third week of travel. It was the most hazardous part of the journey, filled with switchbacks and steep cliffs, where avalanches and rockslides were a constant threat. The road hugged the mountainside and at times was so narrow there was barely an inch between the edge and the wagons' outermost wheels. They could not stop to make camp until they reached the other side, however long it took.

They encountered several rockfalls along the way, forcing them to stop and clear the road. Most were fairly small and only required a few minutes to clear. Once it took a couple of hours to clear a path. Catelyn watched in fascination as the boulders were rolled over the edge and went crashing down the mountainside, causing small avalanches as they fell. It was past sunset when they finally reached the other side and were able to make camp for the night. Everyone was exhausted to some degree. No one bothered to cook that night, just grabbed some bread and cheese and cold meat and fell into bed after. For once, Sandor did not take first watch. He slept heavily for a few hours before he was woken for the next shift. Catelyn did not so much as stir when he left the tent.

The next day, Sandor halted their horse and lifted his daughter onto his shoulders to give her a first view of Ironoak Holdfast. It looked tiny from this distance, situated in a valley near the foot of the mountain. Cat was able to make out the wall surrounding the keep and some of the larger buildings of the town scattered around it. She could also make out the arch of the water wheel which powered the sawmill.

"How big is it?" she asked.

"Bigger than Oldtree," her father answered, "Almost two thousand people live there."

The thought of so many people in one place boggled her mind. Oldtree only had, at most, a little over five hundred residents. "Will we get there soon?"

"A few more days," Sandor said. Catelyn couldn't wait to see it all up close.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Longest chapter yet, mostly due to this super-long flashback which is also the first one not based on an episode of the show. It includes Sansa and Sandor's first time, so expect plenty of steaminess towards the end. ;-)

**Disclaimer: I own no part of _Game of Thrones _and its characters.**

_ They'd been avoiding human contact ever since Sandor noticed some men casting shrewd looks his and Sansa's way in the last village they stopped at to resupply. They stuck to back roads and even game trails as they made their way through the wilderness. The days were cold, the nights even colder. Any tree that wasn't an evergreen was bare of leaves. Autumn was coming to an end. This troubled Sandor more than he dared let on. Unless they found permanent shelter somewhere, they had no hope of surviving the winter._

_ Sansa never uttered a word of complaint, however great her discomfort. Years of hard travel had toughened the highborn girl. Her once soft hands were chapped and rough with callous. Her dresses were coarse roughspun, her red hair tied back in a simple plait. Doubtless her own family wouldn't recognize her now, assuming any of them still lived. Sansa heard plenty of rumors along the road, but seldom concrete facts. She knew that Robb and her mother were dead, killed in an act of betrayal. She knew Winterfell had been burned, though by whom she couldn't be certain. Some said it was the Greyjoys, others the Boltons, and still others said it was a sneak attack by the Lannisters. Some said her younger brothers were killed in the attack, while others said they managed to escape and had taken sanctuary at the Wall. Arya was still missing. None even claimed to have glimpsed her in years. The only family Sansa knew for sure was still alive was her half-brother Jon, and she had never been close to him. If she let herself think on it too long, the knowledge of her family's decimation would break her. She was alone._

_ No, she reminded herself, not alone. She had Sandor. Through all of this, the Hound had remained ever faithful. Protecting her from those who would use her to lay claim to Winterfell, which was still of great value even lying in ruins. He put himself in danger by staying on the run with her, yet he never asked for anything in return. He was truer than any knight Sansa had ever known._

_ Luck was with them. After nearly a fortnight in the woods, they came upon an old hunter's cabin, long abandoned. Part of the roof was caved in, but the walls were still sound - as was the chimney, thank the gods. While Sandor tended to his destrier, Sansa cleared the cobwebs and old nests out of the hearth and built a fire. Sansa had insisted on learning, since Sandor tended to curse and flinch every time he set a fire. By the time Sandor came inside with another armload of wood, the flames were crackling merrily and Sansa was preparing a stew with the last of their salted beef. Sandor stacked the wood beside the hearth and handed Sansa a couple of withered onions he'd dug up outside. Sansa smiled her thanks and cut them up to add to the pot._

_ They ate their meal straight from the pot, since they lacked any bowls. Neither of them said a word, but it was a comfortable silence. The kind of silence only those who'd spent years in each other's company could experience. When the food was gone Sandor unrolled a blanket and had Sansa sit in front of him. He put his arms around her, his broad body shielding her from the cold air whistling through the cabin's many chinks._

_ Keeping her warm, that was always his reasoning. In truth, Sandor grasped at any excuse to hold her. His feelings for Sansa had changed over the years. At first, he felt protective of her. She was such a young girl and so innocent, even after all the cruelties King Joffrey subjected her to. But as time passed and Sansa grew into womanhood, something deeper came over him. It crept over him so subtly as the months and years went by that when he finally realized what these emotions were, it was far too late to resist them._

_ A loud pop from the hearthfire made him jump in alarm. Sansa giggled._

_ "You think it's funny?" Sandor asked harshly, but Sansa was long past being intimidated by his gruff voice._

_ "Not your fear of it, no," she said. Her hand reached up to brush against his scars. Sometimes he tolerated her touch, but this time he jerked his head away._

_ "What do you know of my fear, Little Bird?" he growled, wondering at his sudden anger, "You think I got these scars in some daring battle? A torch to the face? A burning siege tower? Or how about dragon's breath? That's heroic for you." He scoffed._

_ Sansa chewed her bottom lip. "I...I know how you got them."_

_ He glared down at her. "How the seven hells did you find out?"_

_ For years Sansa had carried this secret, always knowing that someday she would need to tell him. It was something of a relief, really, to finally let it all out in the open. "When King Robert held that tourney for my father, and I saw Ser Gregor kill that other knight in the joust, Lord Baelish was sitting beside me. He told me what happened to you."_

_ Sandor's jaws clenched in growing rage. Petyr fucking Baelish, he should have known. "And what did that shit Littlefinger tell you?" he snarled._

_ Sansa twisted around to look at him. Her hand reached up to touch his face again and this time he did not pull away. "He told me," she said in a quiet voice, "that when you were six years old your brother caught you playing with one of his toys, and he carried you to the hearth and pushed your face into the fire."_

_ Sandor's body went cold at her words. How? How did Baelish know? Sandor never told anyone._

_ "Why was Gregor never punished?" Sansa asked._

_ Sandor laughed bitterly. "Oh, did Lord Littlefinger not share that part of the story with you?" His expression turned stony. "My father said that my bed had caught fire. An accident was preferable than admitting his eldest son was a monster."_

_ Tears came to Sansa's eyes. Her Hound was betrayed twice over, first by his brother, then by his father. And him only a child at the time. "I'm so sorry."_

_ "I don't want your pity, Little Bird." Sandor turned his head, hiding his burnt side from her._

_ "I don't pity you." Sansa hesitated, wondering if her next words would damage what they had beyond repair. "I love you."_

_ Sandor's eyes closed. A sound escaped him. A sigh? A sob? Even he couldn't say._

_ Sansa took his face in both her hands and gently turned him towards her. "Look at me."_

_ His eyes opened. He looked at her. Then he was kissing her. Or did she kiss him? It didn't matter. All that mattered were her arms encircling his neck, his hands gripping her slender waist, the soft moan she uttered into his mouth. It was clumsy at first, neither one of them had any experience with kissing. But soon their lips and tongues were moving together in perfect rhythm. Sandor's hands slid up from her waist to the laces of her bodice. Highborn ladies' gowns laced from the back, since they had maids to dress them, but Sansa was wearing a commoner's dress, which laced in the front. Sandor's knuckles brushed against her clothed breasts as he undid the knot and pulled the laces apart._

_ Sansa's own hands were not idle. The fingers of one hand tangled in his black hair, while the other hand crept down and slipped under the hem of his shirt, brushing against the skin of his back. That simple touch sent a jolt straight to Sandor's already throbbing groin. He yanked her dress open with a little more force than he intended. Luckily, the roughspun fabric held up. He slipped the dress down her body, Sansa shifting to allow it to go past her hips, leaving her in a plain cotton shift which she quickly discarded._

_ "Eager, are we?" Sandor chuckled._

_ A flush came over her cheeks. Sansa grinned. "I've wanted this a long time."_

_ Her admission startled him. He gently stroked the soft skin at her waist. "So have I, Little Bird."_

_ He cupped her breasts. They easily fit in the palms of his large hands. His thumbs circled her pink nipples, bringing them to hard peaks. Sansa's breath hitched. Her fingers tugged at his shirt. "Off!" she cried, "It's not fair that you get to see all of me and I don't see anything of you."_

_ Sandor grinned. "You only have to ask, my lady." He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. He kept still while Sansa's eyes roamed over his torso. He was big and muscular, as expected, his body covered in numerous battle scars. A thick covering of black hair ran down from beard to neck, over his broad chest, and down his belly. Sansa ran her fingers through it, a look of rapt fascination on her face._

_ "Are all men so hairy?"_

_ Sandor laughed. "Some more than others." He gently pushed her shoulders until she lay on the blanket spread out on the earthen floor. For the first time in his life, Sandor was glad for the fire. Sansa had never looked more beautiful than she did now in its flickering glow. Her coppery hair was loosened from its plait and fanned around her head. Her fair skin had a golden cast in the firelight. Her breasts heaved with her heavy breathing._

_ Seven hells, could this really be happening?_

_ "Do you want this?" Sandor asked, uncertainty coloring his voice._

_ Sansa rose up to kiss him. "I want this. I want _you._"_

_ That was enough. Sandor would not waste another moment wondering at how he'd gotten so fortunate. He quickly shed his trousers and positioned himself between her legs. He hesitated then, not because of any lingering doubts, but because he knew this was bound to cause her pain. She was a maiden, after all, and he was a large man._

_ "Why do you stop?" Sansa panted._

_ "I don't want to hurt you."_

_ She smiled at him. "You won't hurt me." She took his hand and guided it to her womanhood. She showed him where to touch her, that little bump that made her moan when he rubbed against it with his thumb. Sandor gradually gained enough confidence to carefully probe her opening with his finger. She was wetter than any woman he'd ever been with - all whores, admittedly - but so tight he wasn't sure he could ever hope to fit. Still, he slid his finger inside her, and after a few moments of thrusting he added a second, stretching her as gently as possible. All the while his thumb circled that hard little bump. When Sansa started moving her hips in time to his fingers, he knew he had to be doing something right. When she was finally able to take three of his fingers inside her, Sandor knew she was as ready as she would ever be. He withdrew his hand and guided his cock to her opening. His eyes met hers. She nodded._

_ Sandor almost went cross-eyed when he started to push into her. Gods, she was so tight! With a single hard thrust he felt her barrier tear and continued in until he was hilt-deep inside of her. He heard Sansa whimper and felt her nails dig into his sides. "You alright, Little Bird?"_

_ She nodded. It didn't hurt nearly as bad as she feared. More a sharp sting than anything. When Sandor gave an experimental thrust, she felt a burning sensation, but also a deep pleasure she'd never experienced from touching herself. Something deep and primal. She wrapped her legs around his waist and moved her hips with his. Judging from the groan Sandor made, he found it as pleasurable as she did. Soon their bodies were moving in tandem, their moans and loving whispers overlapping the sounds of flesh meeting flesh and the crackle of the fire in the hearth._

_ Sandor knew he was close. A faint thought in the back of his mind warned that he should pull out before he spent himself in her, but the blissful sensations overwhelmed his good sense. He couldn't stop, did not _want_ to stop. And neither did she. He heard it in the way she moaned his name again and again. Felt it in the way she clutched him inside and out, with arms and legs and inner walls. She was trembling beneath him. She was close, and he was rising to meet her. And then they were tumbling over the precipice together, crying out their joy._

_ Later, when he mustered enough energy to move, Sandor wrapped them in the blanket together. He hugged Sansa's smaller frame to his and lightly kissed the crown of her head. "I love you, Little Bird."_

_ "I love you, too," she murmured, already half asleep. Sated and content, the lovers held each other through the night._

* * *

Catelyn felt like her eyes might pop out of her head. Ironoak was so _big_. And crowded! So many faces everywhere she looked, every one of them a stranger. There were ordinary smallfolk in roughspun clothes going about their business, slightly better-dressed merchants, sellswords clad in battered armor, knights in better-looking armor with shields bearing the pinecone sigil of House Larch, scantily-dressed whores propositioning men from a second-floor balcony, and filthy urchins scuttling underfoot. The only thing that impressed her more than the number of people were the buildings. Having grown up among simple cabins made from logs and daubed mud, she found the towering two- and three-story structures overwhelming. Buildings constructed from smooth wood planks and stone, with slate roofs rather than sod or thatch. Ironoak Keep was even bigger. A castle of ancient stone with numerous towers and turrets, surrounded by a great wall made from the thickest logs she'd ever seen.

"Is this normal?" Cat blurted.

Her father smiled. "Might be a little busier than usual with the mountain passes cleared."

The convoy had reached the town earlier that day and gone straight to the sawmill. There the logs were sorted by quality and type of wood, the woodcutters' marks counted, and the prices negotiated - heatedly - between Bertra and Syman and the mill's owner until they all reached a satisfactory agreement. After that, Syman doled out the commissions to the woodcutters while his wife oversaw the unloading of the wagons. Not surprisingly, Sandor had received one of the larger purses. Now he and his daughter were exploring the town together, looking to spend his coin on necessities as well as a few frivolities, whatever could not be easily found back in Oldtree.

The wagon containing the handmade goods from the village - including Sansa's embroidery - had already gone ahead to the market square. Cat saw the kiosk they'd set up and waved to the familiar faces. All around were dozens of kiosks, booths, and shops offering all manner of items for sale. Fabrics and spices, fruits and vegetables - both harvested from glasshouses and imported from further south, items made from ceramic or metal or wood, breads and pastries, meats cooked and raw, live fowls in cages, clothing and shoes of various quality, and so much more.

There was so much to take in, Catelyn hardly knew where to start. She stuck close to her father's side, afraid she might lose sight of even his imposing frame in the constant bustle.

"Your mother asked that I get a few things for her," Sandor said, "I thought we might also bring back gifts for her and your brothers. You can help me choose, if you like." He suppressed a grin, already knowing her answer.

Cat eagerly nodded. She grabbed his hand and immediately dragged him towards the nearest booth that got her attention. Its wares consisted of toys crafted from wood and metal. Marionettes, each one beautifully articulated and painted with careful detail. They hung down from the booth's overhead beams like fish dangling from lines. The man selling these items was tall and thin with piercing blue eyes. He had a bald head and a long gray beard, making it look like the hair had migrated from his scalp down to his face. He was demonstrating his wares to the delight of a small crowd gathered around. The marionette he operated looked like a white goose. It waddled across the counter, cocked its head, and flapped stiff wings that clacked against its sides. It's painted orange bill opened and the puppeteer gave a surprisingly lifelike honk. Catelyn laughed. Eddard and Morden would love such toys.

With Sandor's permission, she immediately picked the goose for Morden. The three-year-old adored toy animals more than anything. She could imagine him spending many happy hours figuring out all the ways to make the goose move.

For Eddard, it was a bit trickier. She and her father looked at the variety of puppets arrayed before them, trying to find the right one to give the five-year-old boy.

Sandor froze the instant his gaze fell upon it, a marionette that awoke a flood of memories he tried every day of his life to push into the deepest recesses of his mind. It was a little wooden knight, its armor painted silver-gray. In its right hand was a tiny sword, on its left arm a blank white shield.

"I can add any sigil you'd prefer," the puppet-maker offered.

Sandor's voice was rougher than usual when he heard himself say, "A direwolf."

The man smiled. "Honoring the King of the North, eh?" He took down the puppet from where it hung. "Give me some time to paint it on. It should be dry on the morrow, if you are able to come back for it then."

Sandor knew those of the convoy were planning to stay in town for a few days to rest and resupply. He nodded stiffly and walked away, his daughter hurrying after him.

Catelyn hadn't missed her father's reaction to the wooden knight. She reached up and tugged his sleeve to get his attention. Her father's head jerked towards her, a hard scowl on his severe features. Cat jumped a little, startled by his angry look. "What's wrong, Papa?"

Sandor's expression softened at her obvious worry. "Nothing that concerns you, Little Cat. Only history best forgotten."

Cat frowned in thought. "If it's best forgotten, how come you still remember?"

Her father snorted at her question, but didn't answer right away. His gaze wandered over the milling crowd around them without truly seeing. Finally he murmured, "The toy reminded me of something that happened long ago."

"Something bad?"

He nodded, then looked down at her. "Something I'd rather not talk about."

"Not even with Mum?"

"She knows already," he sighed.

Catelyn took his hand in hers. Her smaller hand disappeared in his much larger grip. "Will you tell me someday?" she asked quietly.

Sandor hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "Someday. But not now, Little Cat." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Alright, Papa."

In a furrier's shop, they bought new warm cloaks for the family, as well as a toy dog for Zander that the furrier's wife had made from rabbit fur and stuffed with wool. They found an old woman who sold dried herbs and bought enough spices to replenish Sansa's cooking supplies at home. By then they were hungry, so Sandor bought some stewed meat and potatoes from a street vendor that was served out of bowls made from hollowed round loaves of stale black bread. When they finished their meals, they gave their gravy-soaked bread bowls to a couple of beggars, who tore into them like starving dogs.

A heavenly scent in the air brought drool to Catelyn's mouth, despite her full stomach. Noticing his daughter's eager sniffing, Sandor grinned and led her to a baker's shop. Sweets were rare in Oldtree, often limited to the occasional honeycomb, the honey crystallized from years spent in storage. Catelyn was overwhelmed by the sheer variety of treats displayed on racks to either side of the baker's door. Pies and cakes of every size, shape, and flavor, all steaming merrily in the cool air. A portly man with a round, jolly face, flour dusting his hands and apron, smiled and declared, "All baked fresh this morning, m'lord and little lady. What is your pleasure?"

"I'm not a lord," Sandor corrected, more from habit than anything. He bit back a laugh at the pleading look his daughter gave him.

"Can we get just a few of the little ones?" she begged, "We can take them home to Mum and the boys."

"The ones you don't eat yourself, you mean," her father smirked.

"Perhaps the little lady would like a sample?" The portly baker picked up a tray of bite-sized pastries and offered it to Catelyn. "The wife likes this one in particular," he pointed, "A lovely raspberry tart."

Cat gave in to the temptation and snatched the proffered tart from the tray before her father could say anything. She eagerly stuffed the little pastry into her mouth. The baker chuckled and even her father looked amused at her impertinence. "Idz good!" she slurred. Her tongue darted out to lick a bit of juice from the corner of her mouth.

Sandor looked at the rows of cakes on display and finally asked the baker, "Are any of them lemon?"

In the end, they purchased a dozen small cakes of different flavors. Sandor allowed his daughter to eat one while he carried the rest in a cloth-wrapped bundle. Hopefully, they would survive the journey back to Oldtree without going too stale. Or getting eaten along the way.

"Papa," Cat pointed excitedly into the crowd, "Look!"  
Sandor looked and saw a trio of men clad entirely in black making their way down the crowded street. Men of the Night's Watch. People were quick to make way for them and bow their heads in respect. Some even called greetings to them. After the Long Night and the war against the White Walkers' attempted invasion, the once struggling Night's Watch rose in prestige. Their days of low numbers, poor supplies, and crumbling keeps were past. No longer did they have to scour dungeons for a handful of dubious recruits. Men from as far south as Dorne traveled to the Wall, eager to volunteer for the honor of serving with the Black Brothers. And even the highborn now showed them the respect they were due.

The villagers of Oldtree knew all of this, even from their isolated corner of the world. Ravens had carried word of the Watch's valor. The stories spread over the hearthfires, and young boys often played at "Black Brothers and White Walkers."

"What're they doing here?" Catelyn asked, her expression bordering on awed.

Sandor shrugged. "Recruiting, most like."

"Can we talk to them?"

"Maybe later, Little Cat. Right now they look like they have someplace to go. And so do we," he nudged her, "It's getting late. We should get back to the others."

Catelyn slumped in disappointment, but nodded and followed her father. She turned her head to gaze at the black-clad men over her shoulder until the milling bodies of others finally blocked them from her view.

* * *

Grenn's knee was starting to pain him. He'd injured it in battle with the White Walkers during the Long Night and Sam Tarly - now affectionately called "Maester Samwell", though he never took any vows at Oldtown - had devised a rather ingenious brace that allowed Grenn to walk without need of a cane. Good enough for most things, but his ranging days were long over. Now Grenn traveled south of the Wall instead of north, hunting up fresh recruits for the Watch. And there was no shortage of volunteers. There were so many men and boys eager to join up that they could actually afford to be discerning these days, even turning away those deemed not quite suitable for life at the Wall.

This was the first time Grenn had come to Ironoak on a recruiting run, but it was much the same as anywhere else. Men and boys from all walks of life put themselves forward for selection. Merchants and farmers, bastards and highborn. Even Lord Larch's youngest son had asked to join. The lad seemed eager enough, in Grenn's estimation, if a bit green. But he'd soon be whipped into shape once they reached Black Castle.

The Black Brothers weren't the only strangers in town. Travel between normally isolated communities was picking up with the promise of spring. The streets were a-bustle with horses, wagons, and people on foot, bringing commerce and news from afar. People who hadn't seen each other all winter were reunited. The inns and whorehouses were barely able to keep up with the influx of new customers. Life was returning to the North.

On a street corner, a young man was playing a woodharp and singing one of the more popular songs that had sprung up in the last few years, _Lord Snow the Valiant._ Grenn and his companions chuckled over this. Poor Jon. He always hated the nickname Lord Snow. Now he was stuck with it for all eternity. Grenn dug a coin from the pouch tied to his belt and tossed it into the bowl at the singer's feet in passing. It was a good song, after all.

He and his brothers of the Watch finally reached the inn where they were staying. It was called the Dancing Maester and its sign depicted a balding man in brown robes, a long chain looped around his neck, clutching an overflowing tankard in one hand and reeling drunkenly, a ridiculous grin on his wizened face. It was just the sort of place Grenn liked, nothing fancy: hot food, good brown ale, and beds free of vermin. The best part of the Black Brothers' stay was that the innkeeper refused any payment from them. "Men o' the Night's Watch are always welcome under this roof, m'lords," she declared. She, like everyone else of the North, knew how much they owed those from the Wall.

The Dancing Maester was crowded like everywhere else. Most of its customers were forced to stand. Yet when those fortunate enough to be seated at tables noticed the trio of men clad in black, calls rang out offering their precious seats to them. Grenn and his brothers accepted the nearest, thanking the men for their gracious offer. Once they sat down a haggard serving wench quickly brought them ale and they ordered themselves a meal as well. Moments later they were feasting on roast chicken, potatoes, greens, and fresh baked bread.

"Gods, I'll be missing this when we get back," Jaq Rivers, one of Grenn's companions, declared as he took a swig of ale.

"We've got ale at the wall," Errol Whitehart argued.

Jaq scoffed. "You're comparin' that watered-down piss to _this?_" He held up his tankard.

Errol shrugged. "Mebbe the innkeeper will give us a barrel or two for the journey." The prospect obviously cheered his friend.

Grenn abruptly stood with a groan. "Speaking of watered-down piss..." He made his way to the exit. Outside, he found a quiet spot in a nearby alley to empty his bladder. From the smell of things, he wasn't the first to do this. Once he was done he retied his breeches and limped out into the street leading back to the inn, only to stagger back when something small and quick ran into him. "Watch it!"

It was a girl that nearly knocked him over. She looked to be nine or ten years old with black hair and dark brown eyes. Her expression was properly contrite. "I'm sorry, um, ser..." She seemed uncertain about the honorific.

"No harm done," Grenn said, "Though you really should watch yourself in a busy street. 'Specially on your own."

"I'm not alone," the girl pointed behind her, "I'm here with my Papa."

Grenn looked to where she pointed and noticed a tall figure weaving through the milling crowd. The man's back was to him, but Grenn could tell from the tension in the shoulders and the way the man's head kept turning back and forth that he was anxiously looking for his wayward daughter. "Don't look like he knows your with him," Grenn observed.

The girl flashed an embarrassed smile, but instead of returning to her father she blurted, "Are you in the Night's Watch?"

Grenn smiled. "That I am. A Ranger, in fact, though the only ranging I do now is collecting new men for the Wall."

"Did you see any White Walkers?"

"Aye. White Walkers, giants, mammoths. Our Lord Commander even has a direwolf."

"Wow!" The girl's eyes were wide in awe. "I wish I could see all that. Not the White Walkers," she quickly amended, "but all the rest of it."

"Maybe you will, someday, if you ever visit the Wall."

"Cat!" a man's voice bellowed.

The girl winced. "I gotta go. It was nice meeting you, ser."

"You as well," Grenn replied. He watched as the girl raced off to rejoin her father. As he was walking back to the inn, he noticed the big man he saw earlier chastising the girl for leaving his sight. Grenn smirked at the girl's downcast expression. It was obvious she didn't feel nearly as guilty as she pretended.

The big man took the girl's hand and started to lead her away. As they turned, Grenn got a good look at the right side of the man's face. Grenn froze at the sight of the burns scarring the man's face. It wasn't so much their grotesqueness that shocked him as what they signified to him.

Grenn had been a friend to Jon Snow for almost as long as they'd been in the Night's Watch. He knew all about Jon's family and the tragedies that befell them. Father beheaded, brothers betrayed, youngest sister on the run for years. And the other sister, Sansa, held captive by the Lannisters in King's Landing, then abducted by King Joffrey's personal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane. The Hound. People everywhere, North and South, were frantic to get to them. The Lannisters, the Starks, the Greyjoys, and gods knew how many minor lords, all with their own agendas regarding the Stark girl. Daughter of a traitor or not, she was still valuable, either as a hostage, a bargaining chip, or even a means to inherit Winterfell by forcing her into marriage. There were dozens of competing bounties for the Stark girl, most of them requiring the Hound's head as well. Those who weren't fighting in the war were searching for the two fugitives. Bounty hunters, sellswords, and hedge knights scoured the lands. Yet Sandor Clegane and his captive always managed to stay one step ahead of them all. For the four years of autumn they remained on the run. Then, with winter's arrival, all sign of them disappeared.

Everyone assumed they must have died in the Long Night. Grenn had certainly thought so. But the sight of that burned man had shaken this belief.

_Just a coincidence,_ he told himself, _There's hundreds of men out there with scarred faces._ Still, all the descriptions Grenn heard about the Hound fit pretty closely. Not just the scars, but she sheer size of the man. And the girl... She called him papa. Probably born near the start of winter. Sansa would have been seventeen or eighteen at the time. Plenty old enough to-

Grenn stopped that thought in its tracks. He hurried back to the Dancing Maester to tell his companions where he was going, then got his horse and rode for Lord Larch's keep. There he met with the maester and had him send a raven to the Lord Commander of the Wall. Grenn emphasized in his message that it was highly unlikely the man he saw was really Sandor Clegane, knowing it wouldn't do any good. The moment Jon read it he'd come straight to Ironoak to see for himself.

Gods, Grenn hoped it was nothing. That little girl didn't deserve to lose her father.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Wow, there are a LOT of hits on this story, and the reviews are starting to come. :-D My brain was buzzing with so many ideas last night I hardly got any sleep. I'm really digging this fanfic. It's all because of these awesome characters, of course, and the great actors who play 'em. They bring on the inspiration.

Here's the latest chapter!

**Disclaimer: I make no claim to _Game of Thrones_.**

_Sandor didn't like the way the septon kept glancing at his face, all surreptitious like something was niggling at him. No doubt he'd heard something about a burnt man and a highborn girl. Perhaps he even heard of a reward, or several rewards from as many lords, each hoping to grab the prize first. The prize being a certain Stark girl._

_ He'd wanted to use the false names they had been using lately - Sturm and Dyanne. He'd wanted Sansa to color her hair. But she insisted they had to present their true selves before the gods, else the entire ceremony would be false. And Sandor was fool enough to go along with it. He should have argued more. He should have _made_ her listen. But she'd reasoned that they would be leaving as soon as they were done here, bound for one of the isolated lumber towns they heard about where no one would ever find them, and it _did_ sound reasonable at the time..._

_ That buggering septon was eying him again. "Get on with it!" Sandor growled._

_ The holy man jumped and began stammering the sacred words. Sandor looked at Sansa and saw the amusement on her face. Seven hells, didn't she realize how serious this was?_

_ The ceremony was a mixture of the old faith and the new. The septon invoked the Seven while they all stood before a heart tree, in sight of the Old Gods. Sandor tried his best not to fidget while the septon droned on. He focused on Sansa, on how radiant she looked. Gods, he actually thought the word "radiant," but there really was no other way of describing her at that moment. Her smile was wider than he'd ever seen it. Her skin practically glowed. It wasn't merely from happiness, either. Sandor glanced down at the barely noticeable bump at her middle. It had been weeks since she told him she was with child - their child, _his_ child - and he still had yet to get over the shock. After the first time they made love, when she gave him her maidenhead, Sandor was careful not to spill his seed in her. A precaution that came too late, as it turned out. That first time was all it took._

_ Sandor dreaded his impending fatherhood. Dreaded even more the thought of his child being a boy. He couldn't help but think there might be a curse on the men of his family. What if his son was like Gregor? Would he find the strength to do what needed to be done then? Would Sansa ever forgive him for it?_

_ He looked at the grim face carved into the heart tree. Let it be a girl, he silently pleaded._

_ They reached the part of the ceremony where Sandor switched Sansa's cloak for his own. Both garments were plain brown wool, without any sigils. Sansa looked like a child in his, it was so big. Its bottom edge pooled around her ankles. The septon then lightly bound their hands together with a soft cord. And now the vows._

_ "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," Sandor intoned, wondering why his voice sounded so much rougher than usual, "I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of days."_

_ Sansa's eyed filled with joyous tears as she responded, "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of days."_

_ Sandor didn't wait for the septon's permission. He pulled his new wife to him and kissed her hard, his unbound hand unconsciously resting on the faint swell of her belly. His, he thought, awed by the realization. She was his._

* * *

When Jon Snow became Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at Black Castle, he never realized the sheer amount of paperwork this new position entailed. His personal steward, an eager young lad named Farlen Smythee, helped lighten the load by dealing with most of the routine materials, but some things required the Lord Commander's personal attention. Whether he liked it or not. There was correspondence from the other castles along the Wall (far more than there used to be now that the Watch's numbers were higher), accounts to keep track of, requisitions from the builders and stewards for more of...everything, really. It was a wonder he hadn't gone blind from all this squinting by candlelight.

Movement at the door dragged his attention away from the current pile of documents he was plodding through. Jon made it a habit to leave the door to his solar open so that his men could feel free to come to him with whatever might trouble them. He smiled at the sight of his friend Samwell Tarly, the head of the stewards since Maester Aemon died in the early part of winter. The years had hardly changed Sam. He was still fat, still good for a laugh - intentional or not. But experience had given him a confidence he'd lacked when he first joined the Watch. He was greatly respected for his abilities, and Jon was always grateful for his advice on complicated matters.

Jon's smile faded on seeing his friend's uncharacteristically sober expression. "What's wrong, Sam?"

Sam held out a tiny scroll of paper. "A raven arrived a few moments ago. It's from Grenn."

Jon tensed. "Is he alright? Did something happen on the recruit?"

"Everyone's fine," his friend assured him, "Just read the message. It's important."

Jon accepted the scroll and unrolled it. Grenn didn't know how to read, let alone write, so the neat penmanship had to belong to the maester who sent the raven. As he read the message, Jon's expression shifted from shock to disbelief, anger, and finally something akin to hope. Grenn claimed to have seen a man with a burnt face, resembling the description of Sandor Clegane. Grenn was careful to emphasize that it was probably nothing. There were plenty of men with such scars. It might be nothing but a vague coincidence.

Everyone had given up Sansa for dead long ago. No one had seen any sign of her or her abductor all winter. But if the man Grenn saw _was_ Clegane, might there not be the faintest chance that Sansa yet lived? Jon could not ignore the possibility it was so.

"Are you going to tell the others?" Sam asked, meaning the surviving Starks.

Bran, Rickon, and Arya had eventually reunited and spent the Long Night with their mother's kin at Riverrun. Now that winter was ending, they were determined to rebuild Winterfell.

Jon shook his head. "I'll not give them false hope. I will see for myself if this man really is the Hound. If he is, I will find out what happened to my sister, and _then_ let the others know."

"So, it's off to, er," Sam peered over his friend's shoulder, "Ironoak Holdfast with you. Do you want me to come along?"

Jon considered, then shook his head. "No. Someone has to take care of this damned paperwork while I'm gone. Might as well be you," he smirked, "You like reading."

Sam huffed indignantly, but the smile pulling the corners of his mouth ruined the effect. He sobered a moment later. "I hope whatever you learn...helps you somehow."

Jon nodded, solemn. "I need to learn the truth, one way or another."

"Just...promise you won't kill anyone," Sam grimaced.

"I won't." Jon reached down (though not far) to scratch his direwolf behind the ear. "Can't speak for Ghost, however." The dozing wolf snorted in his sleep.

Jon was a man of strong emotion. He wanted nothing more than to saddle a horse and ride off for Ironoak that very instant. In his youth he would have given in to the desire without a thought, but the years had tempered such impulsiveness. He made all necessary arrangements for his absence from Black Castle before leaving. The other senior officers insisted he take along more men other than just his steward. There were still outlaws and Wildlings out there who wouldn't show any qualms about attacking men of the Night's Watch. _As if Ghost weren't enough of a deterrent,_ Jon thought sourly.

He and his escort left at first light. Jon smiled as he watched his direwolf run ahead. It had been far too long since they'd left the confines of the keep. If any good came from this journey, at least they could enjoy their time outdoors.

Ironoak was many leagues from the Wall. By the time they got there, the man Grenn claimed he saw could be long gone. Jon hoped not. He wanted to confront him as soon as possible, get it all over with quickly.

Jon and his men encountered Grenn's party of recruits halfway into the journey. The men from both groups all dismounted to greet their brothers. Jon and Grenn met in a fierce embrace. It had been several months since they last saw each other. "Looks live you've collected quite a crop of recruits," the Lord Commander observed.

Grenn nodded. "Yeah, most of 'em are pretty green. But they should do well enough if they survive Ser Alliser's training." Both men shared a chuckle. Ser Alliser Thorne had been Master-at-Arms at Castle Black since long before they joined the watch. Thorne's harsh training of the new recruits was legendary, as was his boundless contempt towards anyone he viewed as inept - which meant everyone. It was from him that Jon first received the nickname "Lord Snow." Oh, their hatred of each other was boundless back then. They disliked each other even now, but a grudging respect had grown between them during the war against the White Walkers.

Jon's smile waned as he brought up more serious matters. "Did you learn anything else about the man you saw?"

Grenn sighed. "Not much, I'm afraid. All I know for sure is he doesn't live in Ironoak. There were plenty of merchants and traders comin' in with the end of winter. From the way he was dressed, I'm thinkin' he's a woodcutter. Ironoak's got a sawmill and there's quite a few villages scattered out in the woods that deal in lumber. I didn't get a chance to question the miller, but I'm guessin' he'll remember a face like the one I saw. He should be able to point you to the right village."

Jon nodded thoughtfully.

Grenn cleared his throat and shifted his weight on his good leg. "Er, there's somethin' else you should know."

Jon looked at him. "What?"

"The man, he...had a girl with him. She looked about ten years old. His daughter."

A frown worked its way between his eyebrows. "A daughter? It can't be Clegane, then." He couldn't imagine the Hound ever settling down to have a family.

Grenn shook his head. "I don't know. She had this look to her."

"What 'look'?"

"Well," Grenn fidgeted, "She had a look that reminded me of you and that sister of yours."

"Arya."

"Aye. Kind of a Stark-ish look." Grenn observed his friend's reaction carefully. He could see the rising anger as the implications of what he said struck home. There was a time when Jon would have exploded. "I could be wrong," Grenn hastened to assure him.

Jon gave a sharp nod. "I hope you are."

* * *

The journey home did not take as long, mainly because most of the wagons were now empty, allowing the oxen to go a bit faster with fewer rests. A few of them carried fresh supplies: sacks of grain, vegetables and seeds, bolts of cloth, and even a few crates of live chickens. People in Oaktree once kept laying hens, but the birds were all eaten during the winter. With any luck, the villagers would soon enjoy fresh eggs once again.

Catelyn was anxious to see home again. She'd enjoyed the adventure, but she missed her mum and little brothers, and Maester Tolbert, and all her friends. She couldn't wait to tell them about everything she'd seen and that she met an actual man of the Night's Watch! Everybody would be so jealous.

Sandor was even more homesick than his daughter. He longed to see his wife again, and his sons. They must have grown some while he was gone. Zander might even be taking his first steps soon. No matter how many children he had, every little milestone felt like a miracle. Sandor hoped he wouldn't miss any of Zander's.

"Papa!" Cat excitedly pointed ahead. She was seated in front of her father on Demon, her other hand gripping the pommel of the saddle.

Sandor looked at where she pointed and smiled at the familiar sight of the village in its clearing, the white boughs of the Old Man towering at its center. He could tell from Cat's squirming that she was fighting the urge to jump from the saddle and run ahead, even though they were still miles out. "We'll get there soon enough, Little Cat," he promised, though truthfully, he was tempted to quicken their horse's pace. But that wouldn't be wise. Just because home was in sight didn't mean there were no dangers to encounter. Staying together was best for everyone in the convoy.

The entire village turned out to welcome them back. Families and friends cried out loved ones' names and there was much embracing and happy tears shed.

When he saw his family ahead Sandor all but leaped from the saddle, pausing only to help his daughter down before they rushed ahead. Eddard and Morden ran screaming, "Papa! Papa!" until they crashed into his legs. Sandor scooped them both up and hugged them close while Catelyn ran past to meet her mother and baby Zander. As Sandor walked with the boys in his arms, they chattered enthusiastically, their clashing voices rendering their words meaningless. When he reached the rest of his family he set them down with a kiss to each of their brows. Catelyn was holding Zander, laughing as the baby squealed and gabbled happily. Sandor looked at his smiling wife for a heartbeat, then abruptly pulled her into a tight embrace.

"Gods, I've missed you," he whispered hoarsely, then kissed her hard, uncaring if the whole world could see them. Sansa returned the kiss with equal fervor. She wrapped her arms around his neck and moaned softly. Sandor ended the kiss with a grin. "Careful. You keep making noise like that and I can't be responsible for my actions."

Sansa laughed.

They gathered their things from one of the wagons and headed home. Sandor tended to Demon as fast as he could, eager to join his family inside the house. By the time he got there he saw that Cat was already handing out presents. The two older boys were thrilled with their marionettes, fighting a mock battle between the knight and the goose. Zander was squeezing his rabbit-fur dog and tried to chew one of the ears off before Sansa stopped him. Sandor helped his daughter with the rest of the gifts. The new cloaks, Sansa's sewing threads, and the little cakes they bought from the baker. The boys were all too eager to wolf them all down in one sitting, but Sansa only permitted them one each. "You can have more _after_ supper," she stated firmly. The children groaned, but obeyed.

That evening Sansa cooked a splendid meal from the supplies the convoy had brought. Smoked ham, buttered turnips, cooked greens, and fresh baked bread. When they were done the children were allowed to eat more of the cakes before settling in front of the hearth to play with their new toys. Sandor sat in his big chair and watched his wife playing with the baby. He wanted nothing more than to snatch her up and take her to their room so he could make love to her all night, but that would have to wait until the children were asleep.

There came a knock at the door. Sansa rose and hurried to answer it. She beamed and embraced the woman who entered their home. "Thank you so much for coming, Ela!"

Elanor was the village midwife, a kindly gray-haired woman who'd ushered generations of children into the world (alongside Maester Tolbert in recent years), including all of Sansa's. But none of her own. The gods had not seen fit to bless her in that way. Elanor insisted they made up for her barrenness by giving her a calling, making her, in a sense, everyone's mother.

"Ela!" Catelyn cried as she rushed into the older woman's open arms.

"Look at you," the midwife declared, "You've gotten taller since you were away!"

Not to be overlooked, the boys immediately hurried over to show her their new toys. Sandor stared over all their heads to meet his wife's gaze. Her smile confirmed his suspicion as to why she invited Elanor to their home.

"Children," Sansa spoke up, "How would you all like to spend the night in Ela's house?"

A chorus of cheers greeted this proposal. Spending the night with Ela was like visiting a grandparent. She was bound to spoil them. Even Cat, who'd been looking forward to sleeping in her own bed again, was thrilled.

"Alright then, little ones," Elanor shooed them, "Go get your things and we'll be off."

There was a minor stampede as three sets of feet scurried off to collect nightclothes and whatever other essentials they needed for a night's sleep. Elanor picked up Zander while Sansa packed a small bag of the baby's things.

"Thank you for doing this," Sansa said, handing over the bag and hugging the older woman.

"Oh, it's hardly a chore, love," the midwife assured her. "Come on now, little ones!" she called out.

The children trotted back with their things balled up and tucked under their arms. Their parents kissed them all and admonished them to behave themselves, then Elanor herded them all out the door.

The moment they were alone, Sandor swept his wife into his arms and kissed her soundly on the lips. "Clever woman."

Sansa giggled and looped her arms around his neck. "Not clever. Merely determined to give my husband a proper welcome home without fear of interruption."

Sandor chuckled warmly and carried her into their bedchamber. He gently placed her in their bed. Sansa pulled him down for another kiss.

"Wait," Sandor abruptly straightened, "Forgot something."

"What?" Sansa watched as he left the room and returned a moment later with a small wrapped bundle in his hands. He placed it on her lap with a grin. "Open it."

Smiling, she did so and gasped at the contents. "Are those...?"

Sandor nodded. His wife clapped her hands with a gleeful cry of, "Lemoncakes!" There were a dozen of the little squares. She immediately picked one up and bit into it.

"They might've gone a bit stale," Sandor warned her, his tone a shade nervous.

Sansa's eyes drifted closed at her first taste of the little pastry. The chewed slowly, her appreciative moan causing her husband's pulse to quicken and his trousers to become increasingly uncomfortable.

"Delicious." She licked the crumbs from her lips. "Gods, it's been years since I've last eaten these. Would you like one?" She held a cake out to him, a coy smile on her face.

Sandor picked up the remaining cakes and set them out of the way on the side table. "I'm hungry for something sweeter," he said, grabbing her by the waist and yanking her towards him. Sansa's laughter sang in his ears as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

* * *

Elanor's home was one of the oldest in the village. So old its sod roof draped over the sides, giving it the look of a hillock with windows and a door. Inside was small and cozy. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, filling the cottage with a pleasant scent. Elanor's knowledge of herbal lore was vast, though centered around her craft. The right herbs could ease the pain of childbirth, avert miscarriage, reduce swelling of the ankles, or prevent pregnancy altogether. There were remedies for cramps during a woman's moonblood, others that encouraged the production of breastmilk, and some that brought vitality to anemic expectant mothers.

There was also a certain remedy, known about by very few of the men, that ended pregnancy. Elanor almost never used this potion, save as a last resort. The most recent incidents were during the winter, when the Long Night was at its worst and nothing grew in the glasshouses for lack of light. When extra mouths would have used up their meager supplies all the sooner. Elanor was grateful those dark days were over.

The children were all tucked up in their bedrolls before the hearth, and Zander lay in a crib that was almost as old as Elanor herself. All the boys were sound asleep, their little faces content. Yet Catelyn's eyes remained open, gazing up at the bundles of herbs dangling from the rafters. Elanor moved to kneel beside the girl. "Are you not tired, sweetling?" She ran a gentle hand through Cat's dark hair.

Catelyn shook her head. "I'm tired. I just can't stop thinking."

The midwife smiled in understanding. "Come. I'll make you some tea that will help you sleep."

Cat rose from her bedroll and followed the old woman into the kitchen area, still clutching her doll. She sat at the table, legs dangling from the chair, and watched Elanor crush a mixture of dried leaves with a mortar and pestle, pour them into an earthen mug, then add not water from a kettle she retrieved from the hearth. Fragrant steam rose from the mug. Elanor pushed it in front of the girl and took a seat on the other side of the table. "We'll let that steep for a while."

Catelyn's eyes wandered over the cluttered shelves lining the walls. It reminded her of Maester Tolbert's chambers. There were jars of ointments, vials of powders and tinctures. Elanor kept a small glasshouse where she raised most of the ingredients. It fascinated Cat to know that so many things could be done with mere plants.

"What troubles you, little one?" the midwife's voice jarred her from her reverie.

"Nothing."

The old woman cocked an eyebrow.

Cat's eyes lowered to the scarred tabletop. Her finger picked at a deep gouge in the wood that had darkened with age. "Papa kept telling me to stay close. When we got to Ironoak there were so many people everywhere, all closed-in and noisy, and I didn't know any of 'em."

"It frightened you."

"A little," she mumbled, "At first. But there were so many new things to see, and after a while all those people didn't bother me anymore. They were like...part of the town, you know? Like the buildings."

Elanor nodded her understanding.

"Anyway, I saw something I wanted to get a better look at, so I started runnin' to it," because she always ran whenever she could, "and I forgot about Papa. I was only away from him a little while, and I heard him yell my name, so I ran back."

"Was your father angry with you?"

Cat nodded. "Yeah. He talked at me like he was wanting to yell, but didn't. I told him I was sorry, and I was...sort of," the girl smirked, earning her a chuckle from the midwife. Then Catelyn's face grew serious. "But he wouldn't let go of my hand the whole rest of the day. And he kept _lookin'_ at me, not mad, but like..."

"Like he was afraid," Elanor finished for her.

Catelyn chewed her lip. "I thought nothing ever scared Papa."

"Oh, there are many things that frighten him. Things that would frighten any sane man," Elanor assured her. She indicated the steaming mug. "Try the tea now."

Cat picked it up with both hands, blew on it, and took a sip. The tea had a milder flavor than she expected, considering its strong scent.

"Do you want some honey in it?" Elanor asked. The girl nodded. Elanor got up to retrieve a small crock of crystallized honey. She used a wooden spoon to add a scoop of honey to the tea and stir it in. Catelyn tasted it again and smiled to let her know it was better. Elanor sat back down. "Your parents didn't always live in this village. Did you know this?"

Cat blinked in surprise, shook her head. There were lots of woodcutters who came to Oldtree from somewhere else, but it never really occurred to her that her parents were among them. It made sense, though, the way they acted sometimes. The little things they let slip, then tried to ignore when questioned about them.

"They came with the winter," the midwife told her, "during that first terrible snowstorm that swept in from nowhere. Maester Tolbert arrived only that morning, driven to Oldtree by that same storm. Everyone thought it a miracle that he found the village at all. The blizzard was ferocious, with killing winds that some believed sounded like the screams of the White Walkers, and blinding snow that made you feel as if there was nothing left but you and the terrible cold. Everyone was huddled in their cottages around their hearths, praying to whatever gods might listen that the storm would end before the firewood ran out. Maester Tolbert was here in my home with his cage of half-frozen ravens. The poor mule that had carried him here lay dead outside and buried under a deep snowdrift. We ended up eating it weeks later."

Cat's eyes were wide as she listened in rapt attention. Her mug of tea sat forgotten before her.

Elanor continued. "Imagine the shock when there came a thudding at my door. I thought the wind was throwing balls of hail around until I heard a man's voice shouting to be let in! As soon as I opened the door, your father barged through leading that foul-tempered horse of his."

"Stranger," Catelyn said, dimly remembering Demon's sire.

The old woman nodded. "And draped across the horse's back was your mother, wrapped in her cloak and every blanket they had. To this day I cannot believe she survived unscathed, and your father only lost three toes to the frostbite. Two on his left foot and one on his right.

"So here we all were, squeezed into this little cottage waiting out the blizzard. Me, Maester Tolbert and his ravens, that huge horse, your parents, and you," she smiled fondly, "Just a little bump in your mum's belly."

Catelyn stared as she took it all in. "Where'd they come from?" she asked, "Before they came here?"

"They never said," Elanor replied, "And none here ever asked."

"Why not?"

The old woman paused to consider the best way to explain. "Some of those who come to Oldtree have histories they feel are best forgotten. Things they'd done, or were done to them. They come to this village running away from something and end up finding a home, family, acceptance. Whatever may have been lacking in their old lives. Their pasts no longer matter, so they are never discussed."

Cat pondered this. "So...it's like the Night's Watch?" She knew many men of the Watch were once criminals, but once they took the black and said their vows, it was like their past needs never happened.

"I suppose it is, in a way," Elanor agreed.

The girl frowned in thought. "What were my parents running from?"

"You'll have to ask them," the old woman said, "But I can tell you that the world beyond Oldtree is not always a kind place, and often it is the good and innocent people who suffer most in it."

When Catelyn finally slept that night, she dreamed of her parents struggling through endless white, her mother huddled on Stranger's back, her father leading the destrier through the blowing snow, his other arm thrown up to shield his face from the biting wind. Walking, walking, walking forever...


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Woo-hoo! Over 2,100 hits on this story. Thanks to everybody who's been following, faving, and reviewing. Here's the next chappie! :-)

**Disclaimer: I wish I could say I owned something from _Game of Thrones_. Or at least Rory McCann. Sadly, I don't.**

_The fire was running low in the hearth, but Sandor paid it no heed. He paced restlessly in the main room of the newly built cottage. The walls still smelled of cut wood and the mud daubed between the logs. That was an unexpected chore, needing to thaw out the frozen dirt, cooking it in pots like stew before they could use it to fill in the chinks. But it was worth it. The house was sound. A good place to raise a family in._

_ A muffled cry from the next room jolted him from his musings. Sandor's gaze was drawn to the closed door leading to the bedchamber. Their bedchamber, though Sandor was banished from it thanks to that bitch Elanor and Maester Tolbert. Who were they to tell him he couldn't be with his own wife? He was half tempted to kick in the door and tell them both what they could do with their bloody propriety._

_ The door opened briefly to allow the midwife through. She immediately shut it behind her and walked over to the hearth. She noticed the dying embers and fixed Sandor with a disapproving glare. She indicated the kettle hanging from its hook over the hearth. "This water needs to boil."_

_ Sandor felt a wave of guilt, far more than her rebuke warranted. "I forgot," he mumbled._

_ Elanor sighed and grabbed the poker to stir some life into the fire. She added a couple of logs, then turned away and, with a final admonishment to Sandor to please tend the fire, returned to the bedchamber._

_ The hours continued to creep by at a snail's pace. Sandor wandered aimlessly about the room, too restless to sit down. The sounds of agony from the other room only made the wait that much harder to bear. Part of him wanted to barge into the bedchamber, while another part wanted to throw on his coat and cloak and run out into the cold. The only thing that served to distract him were the moments he tended the fire. His skittishness around the hearth would have been embarrassing had there been anyone around to witness it. He stood as far from the flames as he could while he stretched his arm out to prod the coals with the poker. When he added fresh logs, he tossed them in from a couple of feet away and jumped back cursing when the clouds of embers flared up._

_ Elanor returned at one point to fetch the now steaming kettle. When Sandor asked how much longer it would be, she responded with, "It will happen in its own time." Sandor took it to mean she was talking out of her arse._

_ He wasn't certain how many hours had passed when Sansa's cries suddenly ended. For the briefest moment Sandor felt icy fingers of dread working through his guts, then the distinctive wail of a newborn rang out and Sandor nearly collapsed in relief._

_ Moments later Maester Tolbert stepped out, wiping his hands on a cloth and grinning happily. "Mother and child are doing well. Absolutely no complica-"_

_ Sandor ran past him and entered the bedchamber. His wide eyes took in the bloodstained sheets which Elanor was gathering, as well as the bizarre contrast of a sweaty, exhausted Sansa beaming up at him with a tiny bundle in her arms. "It's a girl," she told him._

_ Sandor stumbled over and fell to his knees beside the bed. One large hand gently wiped the damp hair from her brow while the other covered one of her hands which clutched the bundle. "You're alright?" he asked, a tremble in his voice. Every story he remembered of women dying horribly in childbed kept running through his mind even now that it was over._

_ His wife nodded. Her smile widened. "Look," she carefully pulled back the soft blanket to reveal a tiny wizened face, "Isn't she darling?"_

_ Sandor looked at his newborn daughter in dismay. He thought babies were supposed to be cute, but this one was all purple and pruny. Was that normal? Sansa didn't seem alarmed. From the look on her face, it was the most precious thing she'd ever seen. Something had to be wrong with _him_, then. He knew it. He was a terrible father, and the child was only minutes old!_

_ "Would you like to hold her?" Sansa held the newborn out to him, oblivious to his inner turmoil. Though apparently not to the terror that flashed through his eyes at her suggestion. "It's alright. She won't break."_

_ Sandor's gaze passed from the fragile little creature in its swaddlings to his big brutish hands. It seemed all too likely that he'd crush her. Unfortunately, his wife didn't give him the chance to say no. She directed him to arrange his arms just so, then gently laid the tiny bundle in them. Sandor sat stiffly with the baby in the cradle of his arms. He'd never felt more out of his depth than he did right then. His daughter blinked up at him, seemingly puzzled by this huge, hairy lummox that suddenly replaced her mother. Her eyes were a dark shade of blue._

_ "She has your eyes," Sandor said._

_ "All newborns start with blue eyes," Elanor's voice startled him. He'd forgotten the midwife was still in the room. "They'll soon change into their true color," she concluded. With a smile and a nod at the new family, she gathered up the bloodied bedclothes and left them to their privacy._

_ "Perhaps she'll have your eyes," Sansa said, "She already has your hair."_

What little there is of it,_ Sandor thought. But she was right, the baby's head was covered in black fuzz._

_ The newborn started to squirm. Her tiny fists waved about, then she uttered a faint grunt and turned her head towards Sandor's chest. She made a nuzzling motion as she instinctively searched for a breast that wasn't there. Sandor found himself smiling at the baby's rooting._

_ "See?" Sansa teased, "She won't hurt you."_

_ Sandor disagreed. One day this little girl would break his heart. He handed the infant back to her mother and climbed into the other side of the bed. He put his arm around Sansa's shoulders and watched as she undid the laces at the front of her shift and bared her breast. Their daughter quickly latched on and began to suck._

_ Sansa rested her head on her husband's shoulder. "What should we name her?"_

_ Sandor couldn't think of a single name for the child. "You bore her," he said, "You name her."_

_ Sansa gave a tired laugh, then after a thoughtful silence said, "Catelyn."_

_ Her husband considered, then nodded in approval. Yes, Catelyn felt right. "Little Cat," he murmured. He reached over and gently stroked the baby's cheek with one finger. Catelyn's little hand suddenly reached up to grab hold of it and Sandor marveled at the strength of her grip. _I was this small once, _he realized with awe and wondered how he survived at all with Gregor for an older brother. His own father had been emotionally absent for as long as Sandor could remember. He wasn't a cruel man, he was just...there. He never once did anything to protect his younger son. And Sandor had needed his protection desperately._

It won't be like that for you, Little Cat,_ he silently promised his nursing daughter. As long as he lived he would do whatever it took to keep her life free of the fear and pain her father knew all too well._

* * *

"Aye, I remember 'im," said the grizzled man who ran the sawmill. He was squat and balding, with sawdust sprinkled all over him. He scratched his bearded chin and muttered, "'Ard to forget a face like that, 'specially on a giant like 'im."

"Do you know which village he came from?" Jon asked.

The miller nodded. "Oh, aye. I know where he's from, sure enough."

Jon waited, expectant. The man gazed mildly back. Jon sighed, "Well?"

"Well what?"

He honestly couldn't tell if the man was playing stupid or not. "What is the name of the village?"

The man scratched his balding pate and a rain of sawdust sprinkled down like dandruff. "'E came with the convoy from Oldtree. Stands to reason 'at's where he returned."

"And where is Oldtree?"

The man snorted. "How the seven 'ells should I know? They come to me, I don't go t' _them_."

Jon gritted his teeth and thanked the man for his help. As he and his men started to leave the miller called out, "Oy! What's 'e done anyway?"

Jon replied over his shoulder, "Probably nothing."

They got rooms at an inn. Jon, his steward Farlen, and the two rangers Aron Frey and Kirken Snow. The inn was full to bursting with merrymakers. Jon sat alone in a dark corner nursing a mug of ale and watching his men at their carousing. He wished he could muster the enthusiasm to join in. It would be nice to shed his brooding thoughts for a while.

They would go to see Lord Larch tomorrow. Chances were he might know something about the location of Oldtree. At the very least he would have maps of the surrounding territories. And once he finally got there, he would know.

It had been years since Jon last saw the Hound, years ago when King Robert and his party arrived in Winterfell. Jon only saw Sandor Clegane in passing, but he never forgot that man's face. Not a single detail. Especially not since he heard the Hound had taken Sansa. Gods only knew what he did to her. Sandor's reputation was nearly as brutal as his brother's.

Jon's thoughts turned to what Grenn had told him when they met on the road, about the little girl. Was it possible Clegane had settled down with a woman and started a family? His first impulse was to say no, it couldn't be. But people could change. Jon knew this from experience. Sometimes people changed beyond all recognition.

And if the man he sought really was Sandor Clegane, what then? Take him into custody? Drag him all the way to Winterfell to let Bran sit in judgment of him? Jon needed to think on this. One thing he was certain of, he was damn well going to find out what happened to his sister. One way or another.

The next morning after they broke their fast (and Farlen availed himself of the inkeep's hangover remedy), Jon and his companions rode for Ironoak Keep. Along the way Ghost suddenly appeared, trotting at Jon's side. Ghost didn't do so well in towns, preferring to stick to the woods while Jon was there. Jon's horse only gave a faint start, then settled back to a calmer gait. Like most mounts from Black Castle, it was used to the direwolf's presence.

Lord Willem Larch was an affable man with ginger hair and a full beard. He took personal pride in knowing all the minor villages and holdings under his banner, and where they were.

"I was planning on an extended jaunt to these places in the near future," Lord Larch informed them as he unrolled a large map that nearly took up the entire table. It was beautifully detailed, right down to the smallest landmarks. "Some of these villages were completely cut off from the world during the winter. Sad to say, not all of them made it through the Long Night." Larch squinted over the map, a single blunt fingertip poised. A moment later, he brought that finger down. "Here it is! Oldtree."

Jon peered down at the spot the man indicated. The village was represented by a circle with a tiny drawing of a white tree at its center. He noted the route he and his men would need to take to reach this place and repressed a groan. There were Wildling strongholds that were easier to get to. The journey was bound to take weeks.

_We've come this far,_ he told himself. He looked up at the older man. "May I make a copy of this, my lord?"

"Certainly. May I ask what is so compelling about this village?"

"There is a man there I must see."

Perhaps it was something in his tone that gave the lord pause. Larch's bushy eyebrows drew together in concern. "Has this man done something?"

"Probably nothing." Jon had a feeling he'd be saying that a lot.

* * *

The days were getting warmer. A person from the South would still consider it terribly cold, but the villagers were already wearing fewer layers outdoors. Catelyn liked it this way. Fewer layers made it easier to climb.

She sat amid the higher branches of the Old Man, her head tilted back, enjoying the late afternoon rays. At first she hated the sunshine. It hurt her eyes. She was used to cloud cover and gray light. But she liked it now. Everything looked more real in the sunshine. She pulled off a glove and held her hand out, smiling at the way the sunlight filtered through the weirwood's red leaves, turning her skin a fiery hue. The world was so colorful now. And Mum said it would soon get even more so, once the flowers started to bloom. Cat had seen drawings of different flowers in one of Maester Tolbert's books. They weren't colored, though. They only had the descriptions written underneath them, along with the plants' properties and uses in medicines.

She slipped her glove back on and turned her attention to the view. With the sky now clear, she was able to see farther than ever before. She could make out the edges of the valley where the village lay, the mountains in the distance, and even the thread-like line of the road curving around and over them.

Catelyn squinted as movement in the distance caught her attention. Black specks they looked like, but as she watched they got steadily bigger. She started to make out some detail. Horses. Men on horseback. Three or four of them. Strangers coming here? Cat leaned over in her excitement, almost falling from her perch until a hasty grab at an overhead branch stayed her. Part of her knew she should probably go tell somebody about this, but couldn't bring herself to turn away from the sight of unfamiliar people coming ever closer. _Just a little while longer_, she told herself, _Then I'll go let Mum know._

They were in the village now. Everyone who was outside stopped whatever they were doing to gape at the newcomers. Most of the onlookers were women and children, since all the woodcutters were off felling more trees. Catelyn could now see the strangers clearly. Four of them, all riding tough little garrons. The one in the lead had the classic black hair and sturdy build of a Northman. Beside him rode a younger man, beardless with curly light brown hair. The other two riding behind were closer to the leader in age, one with long stringy blonde hair and a thin beard, the other with much darker hair and a prominent scar across his right cheek. All of them were dressed entirely in black. They were men of the Night's Watch!

A hundred excited questions clamored through Cat's head. What were they doing here? Were they lost? Were they out recruiting? If so, why come all the way out here to this tiny village?

The leader paused by a group of women and spoke to them. Catelyn couldn't make out what they said, but she saw one of the women point in the direction that the woodcutters had gone early that morning. Since the evening would soon approach, the men were likely to return soon. The man of the Watch said something else that seemed to make the women nervous. A few of them shook their heads while the rest averted their eyes. Cat wished she had better ears so she could hear what the man was saying.

There was movement at the corner of her eye and she turned her head to see the men trickling back into the village, many carrying axes and saws. They were tired as usual from the day's work, but they all tensed when they saw the Black Brothers. The men of the watch urged their mounts closer to the woodcutters, which coincidentally also brought them closer to the weirwood in which Catelyn was perched. The leader called out in a voice that rang of authority, "I am Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I am looking for a man that one of my brothers saw in the holdfast of Ironoak."

Harald Gorge, a burly gray-haired woodcutter who was also one of the village elders, answered in his booming voice, "An' what makes ye think this man yer lookin' for is here in Oldtree, m'lord?"

"I asked the man who worked the sawmill in Ironoak," Jon Snow replied, "The man I described was distinct enough for him to remember which convoy he was with."

Harald rested his ax on his shoulder and idly scratched his scraggly beard with his free hand. Two of his fingers were missing, the result of an accident years back involving a slipped sawblade. "Well, I know everyone in this village. Describe this man to me and I'll let ye know if he's one o' ours."

"He's a big man," Snow said, "Well over six foot. One side of his face is covered in burn scars."

Catelyn's gasp was too quiet to be heard by those below her. She tightened her grip on the branch above her. What could the Night's Watch want with her Papa?

Harald pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. "Can't say as I know such a man. P'raps the miller got it wrong. Either that or he was havin' a laugh."

The Lord Commander looked unconvinced. "The miller was quite certain. He told us plain this man was of Oldtree. This _is_ Oldtree?"

"Aye, it is," Harald answered coolly, "But there's no man like that here."

From where Catelyn sat, high up in the Old Man's boughs, she easily saw her father approaching down the woodland path, his ax resting on his shoulder. Soon he would be over the slight rise and in view of the Black Brothers. A couple of fellow woodcutters noticed him as well and tried to intercept him without the Night's Watch men noticing, but they weren't fast enough. Cat saw the four mounted men tense as they saw her father. He saw them at almost the same instant and halted, his grip tightening on his ax's handle.

Jon Snow leaped down from his horse and drew his sword. Its blade gleamed like no kind of metal Cat had ever seen before, beautiful and deadly. The stormy look on Snow's face matched the barely suppressed rage in his voice as he all but snarled out, "What did you do with my sister, Hound?"

Catelyn watched her Papa slowly lower the ax from his shoulder and grip it in both hands. He answered in a deceptively calm voice, "No more than what she asked for."

His words only seemed to intensify the Lord Commander's anger. He began to march towards Cat's father while behind him his brothers dismounted and drew their weapons as well. The villagers all gaped at the scene. None seemed willing to interfere, not even Harald. They all just stood there wide-eyed while the swordsmen came at their quarry.

"Papa!" Catelyn cried out. She started to climb down the tree as fast as she could, heedless of where she put her hands and feet. Then she heard a lout _crack_ and felt the branch she'd put her weight on - a branch she always avoided before because she'd felt how brittle it was - snap beneath her and send her tumbling. She flailed helplessly, her small body slamming into more branches, bouncing and rolling as she dropped, until suddenly there were no more branches between her and the hard ground.

* * *

Sandor felt as if his guts turned to water the moment he saw his little girl fall. He didn't remember dropping his ax, didn't even think about it until another woodcutter returned it to him much later. He ran past all the shocked faces - including the four men he was about to fight only seconds ago - and dropped to his knees beside his daughter's supine form. She was battered and bloody, but still conscious. When Sandor helped her sit up she clutched her head in both hands and starting whimpering. Tears leaked from her eyes and smeared the dirt on her cheeks.

"It's alright, Little Cat," he scooped her up in his arms, "I've got you."

"Papa..." She was crying in earnest now, frightened and in pain. Sandor fought the growing tightness in his own throat and continued uttering soothing words as he got to his feet and started carrying her towards Maester Tolbert's house. He did not even waste a glance on Snow and his Black Brothers as he hurried past with his precious burden. They gawked at his retreating back, their swords still in their hands until they finally noticed and sheathed them once again.

_What the seven hells just happened?_ Jon's baffled mind wondered. When he saw that little girl fall, the first thing that sprang to his mind was Bran. His poor little brother lying broken on the ground. And the look on Sandor Clegane's face was just like the look on Ned Stark's when he found out what happened to his second-youngest son. Jon couldn't believe the man gently comforting his weeping daughter was the same Hound that he and his brothers were about to clash with only a moment ago. It made no sense.

Jon became aware of the angry glares of the villagers. He regretted his earlier behavior. It was foolish and impulsive, the sort of thing he would have done in his youth. He'd worked hard to become the sort of man who thought before he acted, but one look at that unmistakable scarred face, and the only thought in his head right then was for his long-vanished sister.

He turned to his brothers. "Stay with the horses. I'm going after him."

"Shouldn't you at least take one of us along?" Aron Frey asked, eying the locals warily, "In case someone's in a mind t' stab you in the back?"

Jon shook his head. "No. It'll be better if I try to speak to him on my own."

Kirken Snow snorted, "Good luck with that, m'lord."

Jon started after Sandor only to find his way blocked by the stout form of Harald Gorge. "I think ye've done enough, Lord Snow. Why don't you take yer men and be on your way?"

Jon held up his hands. "I meant no harm-"

"Oh, really? That why ye drew yer sword on one o' my neighbors?"

"That man is Sandor Clegane, the Hound."

Harald shrugged his broad shoulders. "Not to anyone here in Oldtree. Him an' his wife have been nothin' but good, decent folk all the years they've been living here. They did their part to help Oldtree survive the Long Night, and none here can say they ever shied from hard work and doin' their duty."

"That's as may be," Jon sighed, "But long before he came here, Sandor Clegane took my half-sister, the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, from King's Landing. He's the only one who knows what happened to her."

"So, it's a personal quest yer on," Harald quirked a bushy eyebrow, "An' here I thought you men o' the Night's Watch swore off old family ties and such."

Jon took a breath and let it slowly out through his nose. "Please," he forced out as calmly as he could, "I give you my word, I only wish to speak with him."

"Hmph," Harald grunted, "That sword o' yers better stay in its sheath, Lord Snow. We may not be soldiers, but every man here knows how t' swing an ax."

"I understand."

The village elder led Jon to the only building that stood two stories high. From the cawing coming from the open windows, Jon guessed the second floor was a rookery. He followed Harald inside to find himself in a cluttered solar. Everywhere he looked were books and jars and bottles of every shape and size. Just like every other maester's domain.

The little girl who'd fallen from the tree was seated on the edge of a table, sniffling quietly while the brown-robed maester tended her wounds. Clegane stood off to the side, out of the maester's way. He was holding the little girl's hand and trying his best not to look worried.

"I don't think it is too serious," Maester Tolbert said in his reassuring way, "All those tree branches seem to have slowed her fall somewhat, though they certainly left their share of bruises and abrasions." After daubing some ointment onto the back of the girl's head, he picked up a candle and moved it back and forth in front of her eyes to check her pupils' reactions. He seemed satisfied with the results. "Her reflexes are all normal. No signs of concussion. I believe the worst she has is a rather painful bump on the head."

A slump of the shoulders revealed Sandor's relief at those words.

Tolbert poured a measure of liquid into a small cup and handed it to the girl. "Drink this, sweetling. It will help with the pain."

The girl sniffled and drank obediently. She grimaced at the odd taste and handed the empty cup back to the maester, who then turned to her father and admonished him to bring her back immediately should her condition change at all. Sandor thanked the older man and Tolbert walked away to continue whatever task had been interrupted by their arrival.

Jon watched in bemusement as the Hound gently wiped the tears from the child's face and murmured something that made her smile. He then picked her up and she wound her thin little arms around his neck, utterly trusting.

When Sandor turned to the door and saw Jon standing there with Harald, a scowl worked its way across his scarred face. "What do you want?" he asked coldly.

"How is the girl?" Jon asked.

"Fine." _No thanks to you,_ his tone implied.

Jon turned to the little girl. Looking at her now, he could clearly understand what Grenn had meant by her Stark-ish look. She reminded him of Arya. "I'm sorry for frightening you."

"You wanted to hurt my Papa," she accused.

Jon was at a loss at what to say. He had little experience speaking to children. How was he to explain it to her? "I...am sorry for that as well."

Sandor's glare didn't relent, even as he said to Jon, "You want to see your sister?"

Jon blinked in surprise. "She's here?"

"Come with me." The left the maester's house and started down the street towards home.

"Do ye want me to come with, Sturm?" Harald asked.

Sandor shook his head. The village elder gave a brief farewell and went off in a different direction, leaving Sandor and his daughter alone with Jon.

A huge white form suddenly trotted into view. Sandor jerked to a halt and his daughter gasped in his arms. "Issat a direwolf?" the child blurted.

"His name is Ghost," Jon said, scratching the beast behind the ear. "Don't worry, he won't hurt you."

Worry seemed to be the farthest thing from the girl's mind. "Can I pet him?"

Jon and Sandor exchanged wary looks, then Sandor bent down so the girl's outstretched hand could reach the direwolf. Ghost remained placidly still as the girl's fingers sank into his long fur. The child grinned in delight. Her eyes widened as something occurred to her. "You're Lord Snow the Valiant!" she declared.

Jon winced. Even out in the middle of nowhere there was no escaping that damned nickname. "Yes, but I would prefer it if you just called me Jon. And since you already know my name, it's only fair you share yours with me."

The girl glanced at her father, who frowned, but gave a slight nod. "My name's Catelyn," she said, "But most people call me Cat."

Jon felt a chill down his spine. He looked at Sandor, but couldn't read the man's face. "Catelyn?"

She nodded. "Mum said it was my grandmother's name."

Gods, it couldn't be. His sister and the Hound? He didn't want to believe it. Yet as they continued walking his stomach roiled while his denial weakened. Then they came to a cottage where two little boys played in the late afternoon sunlight and a woman applied fresh mud daub to the outer walls of the house, replacing what had worn away over time. In a basket by her feet a baby played happily with a furry toy hound.

"Little Bird," Sandor called, and the woman turned with a welcoming smile, only for it to change to a look of shock at Jon standing there with Ghost at his side. One look at her and Jon knew then that it could not be anyone else. The same light auburn hair, the same Tully blue eyes now wide with astonishment. It was her, alive and whole.

"Jon?"

He smiled. "Hello, Sansa."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** This chapter's a bit shorter than the others. I wanted to get some of the exposition out of the way in this one.

Once again, some of the dialog in the flashback was borrowed from the TV show.

**Disclaimer: Nothing of the show, books, or characters is mine.**

_ It had been several days since the riot. While the cut at her eyebrow was all but invisible now, the bruise one of her attackers had left on her cheek was still noticeable, even with the makeup Shae applied to her face that morning. It bothered her the way people glanced at it and quickly looked away. It made her feel ashamed. Joffrey was always insistent that his King's Guard never mark her face when they beat her. He wanted her to be his doll, pretty and silent. She always struggled to be just that, knowing that the more she pleased her king, the fewer beatings she might receive. She prayed he would not order her to come to court before the bruise had enough time to fade._

_ She was walking down one of the long hallways of the Red Keep, alone for once, having returned from the godswood where she spent the better part of the afternoon praying. She saw the Hound coming from the opposite way and caught herself averting her eyes from his burnt face. Hadn't she just been complaining to herself of people looking away from a mere bruise on her cheek? How much worse must it be for the Hound, living with such careless cruelty his entire life?_

_ He was just passing her when she screwed up her courage and said, "I beg pardon, ser..."_

_ The Hound paused and turned his head to face her, a look of mild surprise in his eyes over her voluntarily speaking to him._

_ "I never thanked you for saving me," Sansa continued, forcing herself to look straight at him, "It was very brave."_

_ "Brave?" he scoffed, "A dog doesn't need courage to chase away rats."_

_ His response hurt her more than she would have expected. He could have at least appreciated the effort it took for her to talk to him without cringing in fear. "Does it give you joy to scare people?" she asked bluntly. A small part of her was shocked by her daring._

_ "No," Sandor replied without hesitation, "it gives me joy to _kill_ people." He smirked at her reaction. "Spare me. Do you think Lord Stark of Winterfell never killed a man?"_

_ "It was his duty, he never liked it!"_

_ "Is that what he told you?" He leaned towards her to emphasize his next words, "He _lied._ Killing's the sweetest thing there is."_

_ Sansa fought to hold back the tears she felt stinging her eyes. "Why are you always so hateful?"_

_ The Hound regarded her coldly. "You'll be grateful for the hateful things I do when you're queen, and I'm the only thing standing between you and your 'beloved'_ _king."_

_ Sansa couldn't take anymore. She turned and abruptly walked away from him. She felt the Hound's gaze follow her, but did not know of the regret that sparked in his eyes._

_ Sandor was not accustomed to feeling guilt. He thought he'd purged himself of that emotion long ago, but that damned Stark girl kept dredging it up in him. Most times it happened when he had to stand by and watch as his "brothers" of the King's Guard meted out yet another of that little shit Joffrey's "punishments." But this time it was his own actions that brought it on, and somehow that made it worse. He couldn't justify it this time by telling himself he had no choice. So the guilt lingered._

_ By the next morning he'd had enough. He made his way to the girl's chamber, thinking she would be awake by now and readying herself to face the day. He had no idea what the hell he would say to her. He couldn't remember the last time he apologized for anything. But something told him this damned remorse wouldn't let go of him until he at least tried to make some kind of half-arsed amends to the girl._

_ As he neared he saw the door was wide open. One of the castle's numerous handmaids came trotting out, followed seconds later by that foreign woman who'd been attending the Stark girl these past weeks and sneaking off to the dwarf's quarters in the night. The foreign woman looked like she was actually chasing the other handmaid, and Sandor noticed an eating knife clutched in her hand. What the seven hells was all that about?_

_ Puzzled, Sandor entered the girl's chamber without bothering to knock since the door was still open. The clanking of his armor caused the girl to gasp and spin around to face him. She was standing beside her bed, still clad in her shift, her hair a messy tangle escaping its simple plait. Had she only just woken? She must have overslept. The bed covers were in a pile at the foot of the bed, like she'd flung them off in haste before leaping to her feet. It was then that Sandor glimpsed something that froze him for an instant. A patch of color on the fine linen sheets._

_ Sandor looked at the Stark girl's distraught face, then stepped past her to stand beside the bed and gaze down at the damning blot of crimson. He saw the tears where the girl had apparently tried to rip away the part that was stained. A foolish action no doubt brought on by sheer panic. Not that he blamed the girl. Her life was about to get so much worse now._

_ "Please," the girl implored him, "I beg you, ser. Don't tell the queen."_

_ Sandor inwardly cursed himself even as he answered in a low voice, "I'm no ser, Little Bird. I'm only a well trained dog."_

_ From the corner of his eye he saw understanding come to her. The girl's bottom dropped onto the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and she sobbed helplessly. That was how the foreign handmaid found them when she came running back into the room. Sandor merely glanced at the startled woman, then glared down at the ruined sheets again, wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere else._

* * *

Sansa was never very close to her half-brother. They played together when she was very young, but ever since she learned what the word "bastard" meant, she kept herself aloof from him. But now, seeing him after so many years, she realized how foolish she'd been to shun him. What did it matter that they did not share the same mother? He was her brother, probably the last living sibling she had.

"Jon!" She ran to him and threw her arms around her neck while her children looked on in dismay. "Gods be good, how did you find us?"

Jon hesitantly returned her embrace, surprised by her uncharacteristic show of affection towards him. "One of my brothers in the Watch saw a man resembling the Hound in Ironoak," he explained, "I came to see for myself if it was truly him, and to find out what happened to you."

"He was gonna use his sword on Papa!" Catelyn declared. As soon as they were near the cottage, she'd squirmed in her father's arms until he put her down. She now stood beside him, clutching his hand.

Sansa drew back in surprise. Only then did she notice her daughter's condition. "What happened?" she exclaimed, hurrying over to the girl's side.

"I fell," the girl answered matter-of-factly, as if she hadn't been in tears a short time ago.

"Fell? From the tree?" Sansa asked, horrified.

Sandor tried to reassure her, "Maester Tolbert already took care of her. She's alright, Little Bird."

"I bumped my head," Catelyn added. She almost sounded like she was bragging the fact.

Sansa briefly covered her face with her hand, unwittingly smearing a little of the mud she'd been daubing on the cottage walls across her brow. "How many times have I told you not to climb that tree?"

"I wouldn't-a fell at all if _he_ hadn't come at Papa with his sword," Cat pointed an accusing finger at Jon.

Sansa looked to her half-brother for an explanation. Under her questioning stare, he seemed a bit abashed. "You know what the Hound's reputation was like," he began, "I had no way of knowing..."

"That he married me?" Sansa asked angrily, "That we had a family together?"

Jon blinked. "You're married?"

"Of course we are!"

"Why don't we all go inside?" Sandor asked in a level voice. Some of the neighbors were not-so-subtly eavesdropping.

"Can we play wif the doggie?" Morden's piping voice drew everyone's attention to the boys. Ghost was sitting placidly while Morden and his older brother clambered over him like a pair of monkeys.

"He won't hurt them," Jon assured her.

Sansa smiled wistfully. "I know. I had a direwolf as well, remember?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

They let the two boys remain outside with Ghost while the rest went into the cottage. Sansa was carrying Zander on her hip. The baby peered over her shoulder and Jon. Jon smiled. "What's this one's name?"

"Zander," Sansa said, "The other two outside are Eddard and Morden. Eddard's the older one."

"Eddard after our father," Jon mused, "Zander apparently after _his_ father. Catelyn after your mother. But who is Morden named for?"

"My septa." Sansa set Zander down on the rug before the hearth with his toys. The baby immediately started playing, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Jon frowned. "Your septa?"

"Septa Mordane. Remember her?" Sansa uttered a quiet laugh, "When Morden was born, he didn't cry so much as huff and scowl at everything, as if the world had failed his expectations. It was the exact same look Septa Mordane had whenever someone behaved improperly. Especially Arya."

Jon chuckled. Yes, he remembered the older woman now. He recalled her as unfailingly polite the few times she spoke directly to him.

They all seated themselves, Sandor in his big chair, Sansa and Jon in two regular sized ones. Catelyn chose to curl up on her father's lap. While the girl was tempted to join her brothers outside and play with the direwolf, her curiosity was too strong to resist. It seemed she might finally get some answers as to her parents' mysterious past.

"Mum, why does he call you Sansa an' Papa Sandor? Everyone else always calls you Dyanne and Sturm."

Sansa glanced at her husband in an unspoken question. He gave a faint nod of agreement.

"Those were our names before we came to Oldtree," Sansa explained, "My name was Sansa Stark, and your father's was Sandor Clegane."

"Stark?" Catelyn perked at the name, "Like Robb Stark, the King in the North?"

It was Sandor who answered, "Aye, Little Cat. Your mother is Robb's sister."

Catelyn gaped. "Mum's a _princess?_"

The adults laughed, then Sansa said, "I suppose some would say that. But before Robb was declared King, he was Lord of Winterfell, like our father before him."

"And now that Robb is gone and Queen Daenerys rules the Seven Kingdoms," Jon added, "our brother Bran is now Lord of Winterfell."

"Bran's alive?" Sansa blurted, "How? I'd heard that Theon Greyjoy killed him and Rickon when he took Winterfell."

Jon told her of Theon's trickery, killing two orphan boys and passing their mutilated bodies off as the Stark lads. And later, when Winterfell was sacked by the traitorous Boltons, Bran and Rickon escaped with Hodor and the Wildling woman Osha. "Telling you what all happened to them would take more than one night," Jon said, "And I think your girl here would rather have us answer more of her questions." He quirked an eyebrow at Cat.

But Sansa had one more question of her own. "Is Arya...?"

Jon nodded. "She lives as well. Had quite a few adventures herself before she finally reunited with our brothers. They are all together rebuilding Winterfell as we speak."

A few tears escaped Sansa's eyes, hastily brushed away. For years she thought her family was all but wiped out, and now she found out most of them were still alive. It was like a gift from the gods. She wanted to ask more about them, but Jon was right, Catelyn deserved to know her family's history.

Jon and Sansa spent the next few hours telling Cat their stories. Sandor would occasionally speak up to add some bit of information his wife overlooked, but for the most part remained silent throughout the exchange. Sansa and Jon paused in their tales a few times: when it was late enough to bring the boys inside, when Sansa fixed a quick supper, and finally when the younger children were all put to bed. Catelyn was allowed to stay up well past her normal bedtime so that she could hear everything the adults had to tell her. And there was so much to tell her. It astounded her to hear everything her parents had been through, what Jon and the relatives she'd never met had been through. It rivaled Maester Tolbert's stories.

There were some things that were kept deliberately vague. Sansa didn't go into detail on the abuses she suffered under Joffrey's sadistic commands, saying only that she was mistreated during her stay at the Red Keep. Sandor said even less. He mentioned his older brother Gregor, the Mountain that Rides, and said he was a cruel man, but did not go into specifics. He certainly wasn't ready to tell her how Gregor stuffed his face into the hot coals over a mere toy.

Then Jon asked a question that would have staggered Sandor had he not already been seated: "Did you know about Gregor's death?"

"The Mountain is dead?" Sansa gasped.

Her half-brother nodded. "It happened almost a year after you escaped from King's Landing. Clegane got into a duel with a man who liked to dip his blade in poison. He killed his opponent, but not before he was nicked by that blade. I heard the wound was little more than a scratch, but it was enough for the poison to taint his blood. People said it took him days to die."

Sandor was mute. For years he'd fantasized about killing Gregor. He expected to feel elated by his brother's death, or at the very least cheated by the fact that someone else got to him first. But other than shock, he honestly did not know what he felt.

Catelyn let out a big yawn. Sandor smiled, "Past time for you to get to bed, Little Cat." The fact that she didn't argue proved him right. Sandor got to his feet with his daughter in his arms. Sansa came to kiss the girl while Jon wished her a goodnight. Sandor carried her up the ladder to the loft where her brothers already slept. He helped her remove her shoes and tucked her in. "Safe dreams, Little Cat," he said, and kissed her forehead.

"G'night, Papa," she murmured sleepily. Her eyes drifted shut.

Sandor climbed back down to where his wife and Jon Snow were still talking.

"My men are probably wondering if I've been ambushed by angry woodsmen," Jon chuckled, "I'd better send them word. I don't suppose this village has an inn where we could stay?"

Sansa shook her head. "I'm sure the maester would be happy to put your men up for the night. As for you, you're more than welcome to sleep here."

"Thank you." Jon left to speak with his brothers.

Sansa turned to her husband, a brilliant smile on her face. "Can you believe it? Bran and Rickon and Arya alive! Jon said he'll send a raven telling them about me. We could go visit them in Winterfell! Can you imagine?" she gushed, "Our children in my childhood home, playing in the godswood where my father used to sit and think?" She noticed then that Sandor didn't seem to share her excitement. His face remained expressionless, yet his eyes looked almost sad. Sansa's smile faded. "What's wrong?"

He struggled to put into words the sense of dread that came over him the longer she spent in her half-brother's presence, reconnecting with her former life with such joyous enthusiasm. It planted a seed of worry in him. That maybe her life with him was nothing more than an interlude, and now she was about to reclaim her birthright as a Stark of Winterfell. Sandor could see no place for himself in that life. Their children, yes - Sandor always felt they were more Stark than Clegane - but not for him.

Sandor knew he could not tell her this, though. It would only make her feel guilty, as if she'd done or said something to make him believe this. He tried to muster a convincing smile for her instead. "Nothing, Little Bird. I'm happy for you."

Sansa didn't quite look convinced, but then Jon returned and she was distracted by the need to find bedding for him.

Later, lying beside his wife in their bed, Sandor gazed up through the darkness towards the ceiling, too troubled to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Two chapters in one day! This one's another shortie.

**Disclaimer: George R. R. Martin is my hero for creating this incredible world with its wonderful characters. Everything belongs to him, except my own OCs.**

_ "No."_

_ Sansa stared at her husband in disbelief. "You won't even discuss it?"_

_ "There's nothing to discuss, Little Bird. One child is enough." He was seated in his chair, removing his boots. He acted like the laces were giving him trouble, but in truth he was just trying to avoid meeting his wife's eyes._

_ Sansa persisted, "But Maester Tolbert assured everyone that the Conclave in Oldtown believes the worst part of winter is over. Once there's enough light we can start growing crops in the glasshouses again. There's no reason not to have anymore children now."_

_ "I said no, Little Bird."_

_ Sansa threw her arms out in frustration. "Why? Why would you have Catelyn remain an only child?"_

_ Dropping all pretense, Sandor kicked his boots aside and stood to face her. The look on his scarred face was uncompromising. "If we have another, our luck might not hold out this time."_

_ "What are you talking about?"_

_ He looked away. A muscle in his jaw twitched._

_ Concerned, Sansa closed the distance between them and touched his arm. "Please do not turn from me. Tell me what you meant."_

_ After a long pause, Sandor forced out between clenched teeth, "It could be a boy."_

_ His wife frowned. "What if it is? Don't you want a son?"_

_ "Gods, girl, you can't possibly be that thick," he spat, sounding for a moment like the Hound. He gripped her arms and loomed over her. "Look at me. Look at what my own brother did to me. It's not even the worst thing he's ever done. And I'm no better. I've cut down men who couldn't defend themselves. Killed women and children. And you're telling me you want to bring another monster like that into the world?"_

_ Sansa gazed sorrowfully up at him. She reached up and touched the burnt half of his face. "You are no monster, my love."_

_ "Gregor is," he insisted._

_ "Our son will not be Gregor."_

_ Her husband snorted. "You don't know that, Little Bird."_

_ "I do," she retorted, "He will not be like your brother because we won't let him. We will teach him kindness and goodness and he will grow up to be an honorable man. One we can be proud to call son."_

_ Sandor shook his head, unable to believe her._

_ Sansa rested her other hand on his chest. "If you want me to keep using the tea Elanor makes, I will. But I won't take it forever. I want to have more of your children, girls _and_ boys. Not only so Catelyn can have siblings to play with, but so you can have more people in the world who love you. Don't let your brother's monstrousness overshadow your happiness," she pleaded, "Think of the joy more children could bring."_

_ Sandor's eyes closed as pain rippled across his face. He did not deserve such joy._

_ He felt Sansa's lips brush his. "It's alright," she murmured, "You don't have to decide now. It can wait." She kissed him again, and again, each kiss more lingering than before. "It's alright, my love."_

_ Sandor pulled her close, deepening their kiss until they had to pull away gasping. He knew her desire for another child would eventually win out. He could never deny her whatever she wanted. But he was still afraid. What if she was wrong? What if there was something in him, some tainted part of him that might take root in his sons?_

_ He thought about his daughter, as sweet and innocent as her mother, and yet one look at her left no doubt as to who her father was. She was his little miracle. More than that, she was his redemption. His Little Cat._

_ He did want more children with Sansa. If only for the chance of bringing more such miracles into this awful world._

* * *

Sandor had already left to begin another day of felling trees when Jon woke early the next morning. He broke his fast with his sister and her children, all sitting around the table chattering away. Jon marveled at how each child resembled Sandor as much as they did Sansa. The boys were big for their ages, would probably grow to be as big as their father when they came of age. And Catelyn, Jon could see a lot of Sandor in her. She had her mother's features, but her eyes were the exact shade of dark brown as her father's, and something about the way she frowned reminded him strongly of Clegane's intimidating scowl. Jon hoped she hadn't inherited Sandor's temper as well, otherwise gods help any man who drew her ire.

The children were full of questions for him, mostly about Ghost (Could they ride him like a pony?), the White Walkers (How many did he fight himself?), and the Wall (How big was it really?). When Jon pointed out that they could call him uncle, their excitement seemed to explode. Apparently having the legendary Lord Snow for their uncle was no small boast.

When they were done eating, Sansa reminded her daughter and two elder sons that they still had chores to do. The youngsters whined in protest, but obeyed. Jon insisted on clearing the table while Sansa set to cleaning up the baby, who seemed more interested in wearing his food than eating it. "I do believe you're the messiest one so far," she chided the infant, who giggled in response.

Jon gathered up the dishes and carried them to the basin to be washed. "You know, I expected more hostility from Clegane, especially considering I drew my sword on him."

Sansa laughed. "I think he was holding back for my sake."

"He was certainly reserved last night," Jon remarked.

"He's always been that way," Sansa said, "People didn't think of him as quiet because of his reputation as the Hound. The truth is he's one of the least talkative people I've ever known."

"That must aggravate you," Jon grinned.

His half-sister laughed, wrestling her youngest into fresh clothes. "At times," she confessed, "Getting him to tell me what he's thinking is often like prying open a rusted hinge." _Like last night,_ she thought. She knew something troubled her husband, even if he pretended otherwise. It had to be about Jon, though she wasn't certain what it could be. Now that Jon knew she was with him willingly, there was no reason to worry that he might try to "rescue" her. It had to be something more than that. She recalled how little her husband said while she and Jon spoke of their family history. Sandor was a quiet man, but seldom _that_ quiet. Perhaps it was because his own past held so few good memories? Did he feel left out? Sansa resolved to find out.

Meanwhile, out in the forest, Sandor hacked at the thick trunks of the trees as if they were his enemies. The other woodcutters knew of Jon Snow and his Black Brothers arriving, and how Snow turned out to be blood kin to Sandor's wife. Those who hadn't been there to witness the initial confrontation soon heard of it from others, as gossip flew threw the tiny village faster than the wind. The woodcutters were full of questions, but one look at the big man's stormy expression was enough to make their questions die in their throats. They kept their distance from him, and the trees continued to receive the brunt of his anger.

He'd worked himself into a lather and had to strip down until he wore only his trousers and boots. The thick hair on his chest clung damply to his skin, while sweat dripped from the unscarred half of his face. The burnt half never sweated. He swung his huge ax tirelessly, grunting each time the blade thunked into the wood. Chips flew and small flecks coated Sandor's arms, shoulders, face, and chest. Yet no matter how hard he swung, or how long he kept this pace, he could not distract himself from his anxieties. They ate at him, these thoughts. Kept him up all night until he finally rose with the predawn rays and left the house without breaking his fast. His stomach was all in knots.

Sandor told himself he was being ridiculous. Sansa loved him. She belonged with him. She would never leave him. But a sinister little voice in the back of his mind, silent for so many years, whispered that she deserved better than a worthless, ugly dog like him. That if she ever came to her senses she'd gather up the children and run back to Winterfell where she belonged. _Crack!_ Sandor gawped at the splintered ax handle in his grip, the ax head still buried deep into the trunk of the tree.

"Seven buggering hells!" he snarled, flinging the useless ax handle away. He grabbed the ax head and, after much wiggling back and forth, managed to yank it free. It was then that he noticed the nearest woodcutters had paused to openly stare at him. A hard glare from him was enough to motivate them to turn away and get back to work.

Sandor stormed back to the village with the broken ax and went to Davon Carver's place to get the handle replaced. Davon was the village's woodcarver, who made everything from furniture to utensils to simple toys. Fitting a new handle to an ax was routine for him. He always kept extras on hand. Minutes later Sandor returned to the timber site and got back to taking his frustrations out on the trees.

* * *

Jon and his men stayed another two days. Sansa wished he could have stayed longer, but he had duties at the Wall that could not be put off forever. She and her family said their farewells to Jon outside. The children seemed more distraught that the direwolf would be leaving as well as their newfound uncle. Ghost tolerated their affections for a while before finally trotting away and vanishing into the surrounding wilderness. After that, the children said goodbye to Jon. He embraced each of them in turn, kissing their brows and promising to visit again as soon as he was able. He then picked up Zander and spun around with the baby in his arms until the infant squealed with delight. Jon handed the baby to Sandor with a nod and finally went to hug his half-sister.

"The raven I sent should reach Winterfell in a few days," he told her, "Knowing our siblings, they might be tempted to jump on their horses and ride straight for Oldtree without telling anyone."

Sansa looked concerned. "They won't, though?"

Jon chuckled, "No. Fortunately they were smart enough to surround themselves with sensible people. More likely they'll end up sending a large escort to bring you and your family to them."

Sansa experienced a flutter of excitement at the thought. "Oh, I hope they do," she said. She longed to see the ancient walls of the keep she grew up in, no matter their condition.

Jon mounted his garron and joined his waiting men. With a final wave, the Lord Commander and his Men of the Watch rode away from Oldtree to begin the long journey back to the Wall. As soon as they were out of sight, Sansa turned to her family and was startled when Sandor abruptly handed her the baby and walked back into the cottage without a word. The boys were oblivious to their father's brusque manner, still chattering about Ghost and how much fun their Uncle Jon was. Catelyn, however, frowned as Sandor disappeared through the cottage door. She looked at her mother and asked, "Is Papa mad?"

Sansa gave her daughter a reassuring smile. "No, sweetling. I think he just needs a little time to himself."

Cat didn't look entirely convinced, but she nodded. Sansa was grateful the child didn't press the issue. Her husband's sullenness hadn't escaped her notice. She hadn't felt right about confronting him while Jon was there, but now that her half-brother was gone, Sansa decided it was time she and Sandor had a talk. She just needed to wait until there weren't so many young eyes and ears about.

Nighttime was often when husband and wife had their serious talks. With the children asleep and all the day's tasks complete, they were free to take the time to bring up whatever concerns or troubles they might have.

Sansa entered the bedchamber with a small jar of ointment she'd gotten from Maester Tolbert. She'd noticed the battered condition of Sandor's hands and knew he was pushing himself harder than usual at work. Sandor was seated on the edge of their bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the toes of his scuffed boots. He glanced up at his wife's approach, then let his gaze fall again. Sansa sat beside him and removed the lid from the jar. The ointment had a pungent, but not unpleasant scent. She placed the open jar on the side table and took Sandor's closest hand - the left one - in her own. Sandor offered no resistance, but neither did he look up. Sansa reached over to dab some of the ointment onto her fingertips and gently applied it to the cuts and scrapes she found. After a few moments of silence passed, she ventured to ask without looking up from her task, "What troubles you, husband?"

Sandor didn't answer at first. When his wife finished with his left hand and reached for the right, he shifted his position to make it easier for her, even though this meant he was now facing towards her. This made it harder for him to keep his gaze averted. His eyes kept being drawn towards her calm face, her slender neck, and the long plait of auburn hair that she had draped over one shoulder. She was still the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

When she was done treating his small wounds, she replaced the jar's lid and focused her blue gaze on him. She sat patiently, waiting for him to respond. Sandor swallowed and finally told her, "These past few days have been a reminder to me."

"Of what?" she asked.

"Of my failure."

Sansa frowned in confusion. "I don't understand. What failure?"

"When I took you away from King's Landing," he said, "I promised to get you home."

His wife's eyes widened in comprehension. Then, surprisingly, she laughed. "Oh, my love," she gripped his hands once again, "You didn't fail."

Sandor shook his head angrily. "Don't patronize me, woman. I said I would take you to Winterfell and I never did. All I did was drag you from one place to another, living like bandits while we scrabbled for whatever scraps we could find. Even _now_ we-"

Sansa's fingers on his lips halted him mid-sentence. Sandor took in her stern expression and fell silent.

"Do not disparage what we have, husband," she said firmly, "I love this life we built together, hardships and all. I wouldn't change any of it. Yes, we never reached Winterfell, and I have missed it terribly," she moved both hands to cup both sides of his face, "but Winterfell is not my home anymore. You, our children, _that_ is my home. So you see, you didn't fail, my love."

Sandor dared to feel a glimmer of hope. "And if your brothers and sister bring us to Winterfell, and ask you to stay..."

"I will tell them," Sansa replied without hesitation, "that my place is with you. If you decide to stay, we will stay. If you wish to return to Oldtree, we'll return. As long as the children and I are with you, I will be happy. You are my husband and I love you."

Sandor's shoulders relaxed. He wasn't fool enough to think she would answer any other way. He knew her words were true, but his lifelong sense of low worth brought him doubts. Doubts which would no doubt haunt him all his life. But for now, he allowed himself to feel reassured. He took her hands from his cheeks and placed a kiss on each palm. "I love you, too, Little Bird."

Sansa smiled, but the expression was tinged with concern. "Please do not keep your thoughts from me. I only worry when you're silent."

Her husband sighed, nodded. It was not an easy thing for him to share so much of himself, not even with her. It left him feeling exposed, vulnerable. But he trusted his wife, just as she trusted him. So, for her sake, he would try.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Sorry it took a while to update. I got stuck on this chapter and it took some time for me to work through it. No flashback this time. In the first part of this chapter we're gonna step away from Oldtree for a while to see what all's happening in Winterfell. Hope you all like how I depict Bran, Arya, and Rickon as adults. And after that a little Sandor angst followed by some SanSan love. Enjoy! ;-)

**Disclaimer: Anything you recognize from the books or the show ain't mine.**

Arya arrived in the Great Hall covered in sweat and dirt, her short hair hanging in front of her eyes. She'd been toiling alongside the laborers when she received her brother's summons, clearing away the rubble in preparation for rebuilding the heavily damaged keep. Her hands were covered in nicks and scrapes and there was a tear in the right knee of her trousers. She hoped whatever it was Bran had to say wouldn't take long. She was anxious to get back to work.

The Great Hall had been relatively untouched when the Greyjoys and the Boltons sacked Winterfell. The furniture all had to be replaced, of course, but the walls remained as solid as ever. Arya's brothers were already seated at the new table, Bran in his Lord's chair at the head, Rickon at the place to his right. Their direwolves, Summer and Shaggydog, lay in a furry mound together beside the great hearth. Nymeria was nowhere to be seen. This was not a surprise to Arya. When she and her direwolf were reunited years ago, she quickly realized their bond was no longer as strong as it once was. Nymeria often vanished into the wilderness, sometimes for months at a time. But she always returned eventually.

Arya plopped down into the chair to Bran's left and rested her elbows on the table. "Alright, what's this about?"

In adulthood, Bran bore a striking resemblance to their late father, Lord Eddard. Especially with the beard that now covered the lower half of his face. His build was more slender than their father's, but his arms and shoulders contained a wiry strength. His legs were thin from disuse, but not as much as they could have been. Bran had his legs exercised each day, to prevent them from withering. He was under no illusion that he would ever regain the ability to walk, but he did not want to be seen with two grotesque twigs dangling uselessly under him. So far, his daily regimen was succeeding.

Bran held up a long strip of paper, a raven scroll. "A message just came from Jon."

Rickon perked up. "News from the Wall?" he asked eagerly. He loved hearing stories from north of the Wall. The only thing better, in his opinion, were stories featuring the queen's dragons.

"He's not at the Wall," Bran said, then his handsome face split into an excited grin, "He found Sansa."

His siblings gaped, then both started spouting questions at once. "She's alive?" "Where is she?" "Is she alright?" "What _happened_ to her?"

When Bran finally got them to quiet down, he told them what he knew. "Jon says she's been living as a commoner in a Northern village called Oldtree. He also says that she's married and has four children, a daughter and three sons."

"Seven hells!" Arya exclaimed.

Rickon asked, "How'd she get away from the Hound?"

Bran chewed his lip, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well...that's where it gets interesting."

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently Sandor Clegane is the man she's married to."

This time, the stunned silence lasted several moments. Then Arya blurted, "You can't be serious."

Bran held the message out to her. "You can read it yourself. Jon was very clear on that."

She snatched the paper from him and scowled at her half-brother's writing. The longer she stared, the deeper her scowl grew, until she finally crumpled the message and flung it across the table.

"Hey, I wanted to read that!" Rickon picked up the paper and started to smooth it out.

"He must have forced her into it," Arya snarled, "There's no gods damned way she would ever willingly marry a monster like the Hound."

Bran quietly replied, "Jon said she's happy."

"She must have lied. Maybe she wanted to protect him from the Hound."

Rickon scoffed, "He has Ghost to protect him. Not even the Hound can stand up to a direwolf."

"Jon isn't easily fooled." Bran steepled his fingers in thought. "Though we could find out for ourselves. We can't leave Winterfell just when we're starting to rebuild, but I could send a group of men to bring Sansa and her family here."

"You want to bring the Hound here?" Arya asked, incredulous.

"He's our sister's husband."

"Allegedly," Arya grumbled.

"Where the hell _is_ Oldtree, anyway?" Rickon asked. The news of Sansa's unexpected marriage didn't provoke the same gut reaction as it did his older siblings. He was very young the last time he saw his eldest sister, so for him she was little more than a handful of faded memories and recited stories.

"The message mentioned House Larch of Ironoak as their lord banner," Bran replied, "It should be on a map somewhere. I'm sure our men can get directions from there."

"I'm going, too," Arya declared.

Her brother sighed. "Arya-"

"I want to see for myself," she interjected, face set in a stubborn glare, "I want to look in that dog's eyes and see what kind of man he really is."

"And then she'll gut him," Rickon quipped.

"No, she won't," Bran snapped. He turned to his sister. "If I agree to let you go, I want your word you will control yourself. I don't want you flying off the handle because of your personal vendetta."

Arya crossed her arms and slouched in her chair. An old habit from her childhood whenever Septa Mordane subjected her to another lecture. Bran frowned. "Arya, I want your word."

He was using his Lord Bran voice. Arya knew from that tone that her brother would not relent. "Fine," she huffed, "I swear to the Old Gods and the New, I will not attack Sandor bloody Clegane."

Bran nodded, satisfied.

"But if _he_ attacks _me,_ I won't hold back from skewering him like a pig."

"Very well. I'll summon you once I've chosen the men you will accompany."

Arya rose from her seat and left the Great Hall without so much as a backward glance.

Bran and Rickon shared a look once their sister was gone. "Are you sure letting her go is such a good idea?" Rickon asked.

The Lord of Winterfell sighed. "You know her. If I hadn't said yes, she would've gone anyway. At least this way I was able to wring a promise out of her."

"You mean that promise not to fly at the Hound with sword drawn?" Rickon snorted, "You really think she'll stick to her word?"

"For the longest time, her word was all she had," Bran reminded him, "She'll keep it. She'll hate me for it, but she'll keep it."

Rickon leaned back in his chair, an amused grin stretching across his youthful face. "Sandor Clegane, our brother by marriage. The gods have a wicked sense of humor, don't they?"

Bran glanced down at his useless legs and had to agree.

* * *

Arya was seething, so she went straight to the smithy. She always stormed into the forge when her hackles were up. It was the only place where she was guaranteed to find a sympathetic ear. Or at least an ear willing to humor her by listening to her piss and moan over the latest injustice inflicted on her.

"Alright, Arry?" Gendry didn't even glance up from his anvil. He was currently pounding away at a glowing piece of metal, probably making some sort of tool to help with the rebuilding. In the years since he and Arya first met, the bastard blacksmith had grown even broader and more muscular. His thick black hair hung to his shoulders, and an equally thick black beard covered his cheeks and chin. Though he did not know it, he now bore a strong resemblance to the father he never met, the late Robert Baratheon.

Arya plonked herself down on a three-legged stool with an angry huff. She spent the next several minutes telling Gendry all about the meeting between herself and her brothers in the Great Hall. About Sansa, the Hound, and the journey she would soon take to bring them back to Winterfell. And the stupid promise she had to make to Bran. When she was done, she fell into a sullen silence.

"Sounds like it'll make for a nice reunion," Gendry remarked, "Long lost sister 'n all." He shoved the glowing metal into the quenching trough, raising a loud hiss and a cloud of steam that almost hid his imposing form from view.

Arya scoffed. "Didn't you hear what I said? Sansa _married_ the _Hound_."

"Oh, right, the _Hound_," Gendry widened his eyes in mock horror.

"Oh, shut up!"

"Well, what d'you expect me to say?" the blacksmith shrugged, "All I know of Clegane is from stories, and we both know what stories are worth. I don't think of him one way or the other. I never met the man."

"Well, _I _did," Arya got to her feet, too worked up to stay seated, "He killed my friend, Micah. Just rode him down. And he was there when my father was beheaded."

"Really? He swing the sword himself?" Gendry knew damn well he didn't. Arya told him all about that day, every detail. It was Ser Ilyn Payne who wielded the sword that removed Ned Stark's head.

Arya glowered at her friend. "He deserves to die for what he did."

Gendry sighed, set his tools aside, and gripped her arms in his powerful hands. He towered over the slightly-built young woman, yet there was nothing fierce in his expression. Only sympathy. "What about what you deserve?"

She frowned in confusion. "What I deserve?"

"You keep holdin' on to your thoughts of revenge and all it does is make you miserable. That's no way to live. Ya need to figure out a way to move on."

Arya pulled away from him. "You don't know what you're talking about," she grumbled in that way that told him he'd struck a nerve. For years the only thing that kept her going was the thought of taking vengeance on everyone who wronged her and her family. She recited their names one by one every night before she slept. Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, Tywin, the Mountain, the Hound... Some names had to be discarded over time, due to their untimely deaths which often left her feeling cheated. But they were soon replaced with other names, other slights. The list grew and grew until she nearly went mad with reciting them hours at a time. It wasn't until she was finally reunited with her surviving brothers in Riverrun that she managed to regain her equilibrium. She learned to strip down her list to the bare essentials, ignoring the petty grudges that kept piling up and focusing her rage on those who truly deserved it. Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, Lord Tywin, the Mountain, the Hound.

Joffrey was murdered on his wedding day. Poisoned, most said, during the wedding feast. Many blamed his uncle Tyrion for the deed, while others said it was his bride, Margaery Tyrell. Arya didn't really care. She just wished it had been her, or at least that she was there to watch the little toad choke.

Cersei committed suicide shortly after her firstborn's death - though some claimed it was only made to _look_ like suicide. Her body was found hanging from the chandelier in her chambers, the noose made from one of her sashes. Arya thought it was nothing less than she deserved.

Ilyn Payne was killed during the Battle of Blackwater. Someone had removed his head with his own executioner's sword. Considering where the body was found, it was unlikely the culprit was one of Stannis Baratheon's men. Ser Ilyn was killed deep inside Maegor's Holdfast, where none of Stannis's men had managed to reach. There was a popular rumor that the Hound himself was the killer. That Ser Ilyn tried to stop him from escaping with Sansa Stark. The idea bothered Arya greatly. She didn't like the thought of one of her enemies doing her a favor, however unwittingly.

Tywin Lannister died in his sleep. It was said that when the servants found him, his face held a look of such terror that even the Silent Sisters were hesitant to prepare his body for burial, thinking perhaps the ghosts of those he'd wronged had finally come for him in the night. Arya hoped so, otherwise his death would be disappointingly anticlimactic.

The Mountain, Ser Gregor Clegane, was killed in a simple duel. A tiny nick from a poisoned blade. It pleased Arya to hear that he died slowly and in great pain. After the horrors she witnessed committed by him and his lackeys in Harrenhal, he deserved nothing less.

Which left the Hound. When he disappeared from even outrageous rumor, Arya fantasized that he died alone somewhere in the wilderness, his bones picked clean by scavengers. But now she knew it wasn't so. The Hound was alive, and he still had her sister. Gods only knew what all he did to her over the years. Arya imagined Sansa trapped in a filthy hovel, slaving away for her brutal "husband" while pushing out his evil spawn one after another. It made Arya's blood boil just to think of it. She might not have gotten along with Sansa, but they were still family, and if there was one thing she learned since that fateful day King Robert dragged them and their unwilling father to King's Landing, it was that family was the only true thing in this world.

Arya ran her fingers through her short hair and forced herself to meet Gendry's sympathetic gaze. "Father had Sansa and me sent to our rooms at the inn when he was forced to go out and kill Lady. I remember hearing Sansa crying in the room next to mine, and I went to the window and leaned my head out to try and hear less of her. That's when I saw Clegane return. He was on foot, leading that big horse of his. There was something lying on the horse's back. I thought...I don't know, that it was a bundle of supplies or something. But then the butcher ran right past the Hound and dragged the bundle down from the horse. He sat there in the dirt cradling it in his arms and I knew...I knew it was Micah." She swallowed, her throat growing tight. "I thought Sansa's crying was awful to hear, but it wasn't anything compared to the butcher wailing over his son's body. Micah was a good person. He never did anything wrong, except let me talk him into playing 'knights,'" she spat bitterly, "He didn't deserve to die like that."

Gendry reached over to give her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "It wasn't your fault, Arry."

"No," she said stoically, "It's the Hound's."

* * *

Sandor had the dream again. The one that haunted him his entire life. The one where he relived the moment when Gregor shoved his face into the hot coals, only it wasn't just his face that burned. The fire spread all over, engulfing his entire body. He felt his blood boil and his insides cook. He saw the flesh melt away from his charred bones like tallow. Yet he was still aware, still in agony, still screaming...

He woke with a choking gasp, his eyes darting frantically around the room until its familiarity sank in and his heartbeat began to slow. He shivered, wiped a hand across his brow and found it clammy with fear-sweat. It was quiet in the bedchamber. All Sandor could hear was his own labored breaths. That was good. It meant he hadn't screamed out loud. He looked beside him and saw that Sansa continued to sleep, peacefully unaware of her husband's turmoil.

Sandor rose from the bed, careful not to disturb his wife's slumber. Despite the near-blackness of the room, he navigated his way with easy familiarity. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, in spite of the numerous rugs. Sandor was glad of the cold, for it helped further banish the lingering thoughts of his nightmare. He approached the crib where Zander lay. The baby was little more than a misshapen silhouette, but Sandor could easily imagine the child lying on his back with his little fists curled up beside his head, perhaps sucking his thumb. Sandor envied the child his simple, happy dreams.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there gazing down at his son before a slender pair of arms wrapped themselves around his waist. It said something about his state of mind that his wife was able to approach unnoticed. Sandor tensed for a brief instant, then relaxed into her embrace.

"Was it the dream again?" Sansa murmured.

"Aye," he answered, voice equally low. Neither of them wished to disturb the baby's slumber. "I'm sorry I woke you, Little Bird."

"Your absence woke me." She nuzzled the space between his shoulder blades, enjoying the warm feel of his woolen night shirt and the long-familiar scent of him. "Come back to bed."

"I'll not sleep," he sighed wearily.

"I know." She removed her arms from his waist and reached down to grasp his large hand. "Come," she gently tugged him back towards their bed.

They lay in each other's arms, Sansa's head pillowed on his chest, hearing the soothing rhythm of his heart. "I had my own recurring dream," she murmured, "After the riot. I kept dreaming of those men who attacked me, only you weren't there to stop them."

Sandor felt the anger rise in him at the memory of finding his Little Bird pinned to the filthy floor, about to be raped. He'd taken great satisfaction in killing those animals. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.

Sansa's fingertips traced over his chest. She imagined she could feel the springiness of the thick hair beneath the woolen nightshirt. "I was too innocent to really understand what they'd intended," she continued, "In the dream, they would stab me with knives. Over and over. And they laughed while they did it." She shuddered.

Sandor's arms tightened around her. "Don't think of it, Little Bird."

"It doesn't matter if I think of it or not. It still haunts me, just as your nightmare haunts you. Maybe it always will."

"I can barely remember a time when I wasn't haunted," Sandor said in a low voice.

Sansa abruptly rose up and straddled him. He could hear the smile in her voice when she asked, "Shall I help you banish your ghosts, husband?" Her delicate fingers scratched down the front of his nightshirt like kitten claws. Sandor shivered and sat up. He put his arm around her waist, reached up with his other to cup the back of her head in his hand, and drew her close. His mouth found hers, the kiss soft and slow. Sansa's hands traced his features. Burnt side or whole, she explored both with equal tenderness.

Sandor turned his head to hiss her fingers. "I love you, Little Bird."

"I love you, too." She rubbed her nose playfully against his. "My Hound."

Sandor nipped her throat with a quiet growl and Sansa uttered a faint laugh. They kept their voices low, ever mindful of the child sleeping in his crib. Sansa put her hands on his broad shoulders and pushed him back until he lay flat on the bed once again. He found this unusual show of dominance from his wife pleasantly arousing. He grinned and relaxed, letting her do as she willed. Her small hands slid beneath his night shirt. She scraped her fingers through the thick hair that covered his chest, eliciting another growl from him. Sandor reached under the hem of Sansa's shift and was pleased to find that, like him, she wore nothing beneath her nightclothes. He cupped the twin mounds of her bottom in his large hands, kneaded them while at the same time directing her to where he needed her to go. He felt the heat of her against his manhood, a delicious contrast to the chill air of the room. As she lowered herself onto Sandor's length he felt as if he might burn from the heat of her. But this time he wanted to burn. He wanted her fire to consume him, purify him, scorch away all the evils he carried.

"Shh." Her fingers brushed against his lips. It wasn't until then that Sandor realized he was groaning, only it sounded almost like whimpering. He sat up and clung to his wife, burying his face in her soft breasts. He trembled with the last vestiges of his dream while Sansa murmured gentle words and peppered the top of his head with sweet kisses. Gradually his trembling faded. He straightened to look into the faint shine of her eyes and, grinning, thrust into her with a sudden force that brought a gasp from her lips. He thrust again, and again, a hard rhythm lacking all gentleness. But Sansa only clung to him tighter, biting back the moans that would no doubt wake all the children, not just the baby sharing their bedchamber. Strangled whimpers escaped her while her nails raked her husband's back, hard enough to leave bloodied welts that would last for days after. Sandor barely noticed the pain, too caught up in the pleasure of her. He surged up onto his knees, wrapping his wife's legs around his waist. His hands gripped her bottom, opening her wider for him as he raised and lowered her onto his shaft. Sansa's whimpers were getting louder the closer she came to completion. As he felt her shudder around him, Sandor crashed his mouth into hers, muffling her cries as well as his own deep groans.

Sandor lowered them onto the bed and managed to pull the covers over them before exhaustion overcame him. His prediction proved wrong and he did sleep again that night, but thanks to Sansa's loving ministrations, the nightmare did not trouble him anymore.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Just to let you all know, it might be a few days before I can update again. Forecast calls for thunderstorms in my neck of the woods for the rest of the week, and I don't like using my computer during that kind of weather, even with the surge protector. But never fear, I will still be composing so that I can post future chappies as quickly as possible. Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer: _Game of Thrones_ and the book series _A Song of Ice and Fire_ do not belong to me.**

_It was a mistake going into that town. Sandor knew it, but they hadn't eaten anything in the last few days but a couple of stringy squirrels, and Sansa needed a much warmer cloak. They did their best to stay unnoticed. Sansa dressed in loose boy clothes and Sandor kept most of his face wrapped in a scarf (it was cold enough for no one to think that odd). They got what they needed from the shop as fast as possible without actually seeming rushed and raising attention from the locals. But someone saw something. Someone suspected._

_ "We're being followed," Sandor murmured, keeping his voice low enough for only Sansa to hear. They were a few miles from the town, traveling down a narrow rut that hardly deserved the name "road". From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl tense, but otherwise give no indication that she heard. She didn't try to look behind them or assault him with a dozen panicked questions. She sat quietly on her palfrey and waited for him to tell her what they should do. Sandor felt a sense of pride in how quickly she'd learned. It had only been a little over three weeks since they escaped King's Landing._

_ "Do you have the dagger I gave you?"_

_ She nodded, still looking straight ahead like him._

_ "Keep it handy," Sandor told her, "Follow my lead and do whatever I tell you without question. Hear me, Little Bird?"_

_ A subtle nod. He could tell she was afraid. Her eyes were wide and her breathing louder than normal._

_ Sandor waited until he felt the moment was right, then abruptly spurred Stranger into a gallop. The destrier surged to the left, off the road and towards the cover of the surrounding woods. Beside him, Sansa and her palfrey kept pace. He could hear more hoofbeats behind them, their pursuers no longer bothering with stealth._

_ "Get ahead of me," Sandor shouted, "Keep riding. Do not stop no matter what you hear." He yanked back on Stranger's reins and the horse spun about with a bellow of protest. Sandor drew his broadsword and charged at their pursuers, three men who obviously knew little of battle. They looked like woodsmen, poachers most like. Armed with crossbows and short swords. They were caught off guard by Sandor's sudden change from fleeing to attacking. They quickly fired their crossbows. One arrow flew wild, missing man and horse altogether. One grazed the side of Stranger's neck, which only served to infuriate the warhorse. The third caught Sandor in his left arm. He barely noticed, high on adrenaline and the thrill of the prospect of bloodshed._

_ Two of the men dropped their bows and drew their swords. The third tried to reload, which proved his undoing. Sandor cut the fool down before he so much as drew the bowstring back. The larger of the remaining two came at Sandor with a yell, while the other rode off, apparently after Sansa. Sandor's opponent had some passable skills at fighting. Mostly he dodged and weaved, his overwrought horse snorting beneath him. Sandor rapidly lost what little patience he had and gave Stranger's reins a savage yank. The destrier reared, forelegs kicking, his heavy shod hooves connecting with the other mount's head and side so the beast screeched and overbalanced trying to get away. The man cried out as he and his horse fell. The horse almost immediately scrambled back to its feet and galloped off. It would not be so easy for its former rider. The man's leg was obviously broken from the animal's weight on it. Sandor leaned down from the saddle and finished him off with a stab of his longsword. The man was still gurgling when he rode off after Sansa and the remaining attacker._

_ The anxiety that had melted away in the heat of battle now returned in those moments of frantic riding. The trail left by the other fleeing horses was easy to follow. Broken branches and trampled undergrowth, so blatant they might as __well have painted arrows on the ground. Sandor knew it wasn't long, but it felt like ages before he finally found them. He heard them first, a horrific squealing that turned out to be Sansa's palfrey foundering with a broken leg. Sansa was a short distance away, kneeling beside the supine body of the man who'd chased her. She was stabbing him in the chest with the dagger Sandor had given her, her thin arm rising and falling while a desperate sound escaped her throat._

_ Sandor dismounted and hurried to the girl's side. She didn't even notice him. When he grabbed her shoulder she screamed and tried to stab him in turn. Fortunately, Sandor's reflexes were much faster than hers. His fingers wrapped around her delicate wrist and stopped her mid-swing. "Easy, Little Bird. It's only me," he glanced down at the bloodied corpse, "He can't hurt you now."_

_ Her wide, tearful eyes stared up at him in shock, then looked at her bloodstained hands in horror and let the dagger fall from her grip. "I...I...H-he came at me and...and I fell. M-my horse it- And he..." Her incoherent babbling gave way to sobbing. She buried her face against Sandor's broad chest, fingers clutching at his clothes, smearing them with blood._

_ Sandor was at a loss. He had no idea how to deal with a weeping girl. His first instinct was to push her away and growl at her to pull herself together, but for once better sense prevailed. He awkwardly patted her back with his left hand, his right still gripping his broadsword. "You're alright, Little Bird," he muttered in what he hoped was a gentle voice._

_ Sansa sniffled and finally pulled away. She started to wipe her face with her hand, then thought better of it and used her sleeve instead. Sandor went to put the palfrey out of its misery, then retrieved a flask of water from its saddlebags and brought it over to Sansa. She used the water to wet and cloth and wash off her hands while Sandor transferred the rest of her meager belongings to Stranger's back. By the time he was done, Sansa was as clean and composed as she was going to get. He was also pleased to notice that she had also wiped off the dagger and sheathed it at her belt. Sandor lifted her onto the less-than-thrilled Stranger's back and mounted behind her._

_ The ride was silent for some time. Sandor had gotten good at reading the girl's silences, few and far between though they were. He knew she was working up the courage to say something to him. He was content to wait._

_ He didn't have to wait long. "I apologize for my earlier behavior," she said timidly._

_ Sandor snorted. "Behavior? What the seven hells are you talking about?"_

_ "When I cried," she explained in an even tinier voice, "It was weak of me. It won't happen again."_

_ He sighed, "Little Bird-"_

_ "I don't want you to see me as a burden," she insisted, "I know I've already inconvenienced you-"_

_ "Stop," he laughed, incredulous, "Stupid girl, I don't care if you cry as long as it doesn't interfere with what has to be done. You didn't break down until after the danger was passed. You defended yourself first. That's all that matters to me."_

_ Sansa's head bowed. "I killed that man."_

_ "You did what had to be done." Sandor regretted it, though. He'd hoped to protect her from having to take such actions, preserve her innocence. The girl's sleep was uneasy as it was. He could just imagine the nightmares that would plague her tonight._

_ The girl tried to surreptitiously wipe her eyes. "How old were you when you..."_

_ "Killed my first man?"_

_ She nodded._

_ Sandor didn't answer for a long time. Finally, he said, "Not much younger than you. I was twelve, working as a __squire for one of Tywin Lannister's bannermen. We were caught in a battle. Some nonesense feud between the Lannisters and some other House. A knight killed my master and then came after me. I was big for my age, already as tall as most grown men. I grabbed up my master's morningstar and used it to beat the knight's head in, helmet and all. After..." he hesitated, but forced himself to continue, "After, I vomited all over myself."_

_ Sansa turned around to give him a surprised look. Sandor smirked, "So you see, Little Bird, a little crying is nothing to fret about. At least you didn't have to change your tunic."_

_ A tremulous smile made its way across the girl's face. Sandor felt an unaccustomed warmth at the sight._

_ A few miles down the overgrown path they found a horse grazing. They recognized it as the horse belonging to the man Sansa had killed. Since he no longer had any use for the mount, Sansa was given claim to it. Stranger was grateful for the lightened load._

* * *

Arya knew the village was isolated and hard to get to, that it would take weeks to reach it even with the mountain passes cleared. Even so, there were moments when she wondered if this damned journey would ever end.

At least Nymeria seemed to be enjoying herself. The direwolf showed up the day Arya and the handful of men accompanying her were set to leave. Nymeria spent much of her time exploring the unfamiliar wilderness, returning on occasion with a bloodied muzzle or even a carcass which she was content to share with the humans. Once she trotted into camp dragging a massive boar, a sight which greatly impressed the men.

Arya wasn't the only Stark traveling in the group. When she'd stepped out of the keep with her pack slung over her shoulder, she was surprised and irritated to discover Rickon had decided to tag along. She suspected he was there to make sure she behaved herself, either by his own volition or at their brother's suggestion. As if her word wasn't good enough. His direwolf, Shaggydog, tended to stick closer to the group while they traveled. And when he did hunt, he never bothered to share his kills. But he and Nymeria got along well. There were few things more amazing than watching two massive direwolves frolic together like puppies.

It was a great relief when they finally saw the village of Oldtree ahead. Aside from the massive weirwood at its center, it was a fairly nondescript place. The cabins were rustic, but soundly built. The people were dressed mainly in brown roughspun and coats of various animal furs. It was evening, so the men were returned from their work in the woods. All were solidly built from swinging axes all through the days. The women bore themselves with a strong sense of independence, while the children behaved like children everywhere, playing and shouting or doing chores. All in all these were simple, self-reliant folk, able to get themselves through hardship without complaint. Arya found it hard to imagine the Hound living amongst such people.

"You're from Winterfell?"

Arya twisted in the saddle to face the man who called out. He was an older man in a simple brown robe, wearing the chain of a maester.

"I am Arya Stark," she replied, then gestured to her brother, "This is my younger brother, Rickon. We're here to see our sister, Sansa."

A look of puzzlement passed over the maester's face, then he smiled in understanding. "Ah, yes. Here we all know her as Dyanne Edger, and her husband as Sturm."

Arya's fingers tightened on the reins at the mention of her sister's "husband."

The old man continued. "I am Maester Tolbert. Your sister and her family are good friends of mine. I was there for each of their children's births."

Arya shifted uncomfortably. "Can you tell us which house is theirs?"

"Certainly. Come with me," Tolbert beckoned.

Arya, Rickon, and their men dismounted and followed the maester, leading their mounts. After so much time in the saddle, stretching their legs was a welcome relief. As they passed the ancient weirwood, Arya was struck by the laughing, gaping maw of its carved face. The tree's size rivaled that of the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood.

"The villagers call the tree the Old Man," Maester Tolbert explained, "It is a popular climbing spot for the children, most notably your sister's eldest child, Catelyn."

Arya blinked in surprise. She'd read the names of Sansa's children in Jon's message, but hearing her long-dead mother's name spoken aloud felt strange. She peered up into the Old Man's branches, but saw no signs of any children in its boughs at this time.

When they reached their destination, there was nothing about the cabin that distinguished it from its neighbors. Hewn logs and mud daub, sod roof, small shuttered windows. The sounds of youngsters playing at the back of the house reached Arya's ears. At the front, a woman scrubbed clothes in a metal washtub while a man split logs for firewood. Despite the fact that he must have been swinging the ax all day, he did not seem tired. He was a large man, broad-shouldered, with long black hair showing streaks of gray. Arya's left hand unconsciously reached for the hilt of her sword.

"Sturm, Dyanne," Maester Tolbert called out. The couple paused in their tasks and looked up at the newcomers.

Arya's vision narrowed onto the man's face. There was no question it was the Hound. Those hideous burns were there for all to see. Her grip on her sword tightened as the rage started to boil up in her. In that instant she forgot about her reluctant promise to Bran not to start any violence. All she knew was that her friend's murderer was right in front of her and the chance for vengeance was finally at hand.

"Arya!"

She blinked and turned her head to see the woman running at her with a brilliant smile, long auburn plait flying behind her. She was so different, older, more filled-out with age and childbirth. No longer the willowy thirteen-year-old Arya remembered. But there was no mistaking that hair, those blue eyes, and that face so like their mother's.

The next thing Arya knew, she was wrapped in a tight embrace. Sansa's hands, still wet from her laundry, pressed into her back.

"Gods, I can't believe it's you!" Sansa drew back, holding her sister at arm's length. "You look just the same!"

Arya tried to think of a response, but her mind was a blank. She honestly didn't know how to react to her sister's presence. It troubled her to realize she actually felt more strongly about the Hound that she did about Sansa. It was as if the part of her that should have felt joy was numbed by the anger that had been the focus of her life for so many years.

A grinning Rickon approached the embracing women. "And what about me?"

Sansa studied his face, her expression confused, but growing certain the more she took in his distinctive Stark features. "Rickon? Little Rickon, is that really you?"

"It's me," his grin broadened, "Though not so little anymore, obviously." He was taller than her by two or three inches. A light fuzz of beard that had grown during the journey covered his chin and upper lip.

Sansa hurried over to embrace him as well. "My baby brother. I cannot believe how much you've grown!" She looked up at his smiling face. "Do you remember me at all? You were so young when we separated."

Rickon shrugged. "I remember a few things. Mostly you yelling at me to stay out of your room."

Sansa laughed, "You were always underfoot. My children are the same way, all so rambunctious. Oh, you must meet them! They'll be so excited."

"I'll fetch them," Sandor said, thunking his ax into the old stump he used for a chopping block and heading for the back of their cabin. He glanced at Arya as he passed, his look telling her he was perfectly aware of the murderous intent in her eyes, even if the others hadn't noticed.

Once Sandor was out of sight Arya approached her sister and whispered, "Do you need our help?"

Sansa frowned, puzzled. "Help with what?"

"Getting away from _him_," Arya pointed in the direction Sandor had gone. Rickon sighed and rolled his eyes.

Sansa's eyes widened in understanding. "No, of course not."

"If you're afraid for yourself or the children-"

"Look at her, Arya," Rickon interjected, "She's not afraid."

"Sandor has been a kind and loving husband, and a wonderful father," Sansa explained, just as she had with Jon, "He's not the man he used to be back in King's Landing."

Arya gritted her teeth. "He killed Micah."

Her sister frowned. "Who?"

"The butcher's boy!"

Rickon touched her shoulder, cautious. "Arya, let's not get into this now. The little ones are coming." And he was right. Sandor returned with Eddard and Morden holding his hands, while Catelyn trailed behind with little Zander. Cat was behind her baby brother, holding his hands while he stumbled along in a clumsy almost-walk. From the intense smile on his face, the infant was elated with his own progress.

Sansa made the introductions. "This is my sister, Arya, and my younger brother, Rickon."

The children gazed at their aunt and uncle in frank curiosity.

"Are you wif the Night's Watch, too?" Eddard asked.

Rickon chuckled. "No we're not. Besides, girls aren't allowed in the Watch." He nudged Arya playfully.

"Girls are too smart for the Watch," she retorted with a roll of her eyes. She scrutinized the youngsters closely, searching for any signs of mistreatment. Yet they looked nothing like the used and abused children she'd encountered in her years of travel. They didn't cringe or avoid her eyes. And when Sandor picked up the baby, Zander leaned his head trustingly on his father's shoulder. Arya felt an uncomfortable roil in her stomach, seeing the Hound holding a little child. It was too incongruous with everything she knew about him. This wasn't right. None of it was.

Sansa touched her arm, jarring her from her thoughts. "Why don't we all go inside? Have a bite of supper?"

Maester Tolbert spoke up, "Your men are more than welcome at my house while you get reacquainted with your family."

Rickon thanked him for the kind offer and the men followed Tolbert. Arya remained silent, still brooding over what she'd seen so far. She followed her brother and the rest into the cabin, pausing only to meet Sandor's unwavering gaze. He was still carrying his infant son. The look in his brown eyes far too knowing. Arya's fingers twitched with the urge to reach for her sword, but she kept her hands at her sides. _Not now_, she told herself. But later, when there were no innocents around... She just needed to find away to get him alone, so she could finally confront him for his crimes.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** The incident in this flashback was similar to an experience I had when I was a kid. I was bullying my little sister, and my dad handled it in a way that might have seemed cruel, but taught me a valuable lesson in empathy. I never forgot it, though it wasn't until I was an adult that I fully understood what my dad had done for me. I'm grateful he had the courage to be the bad guy that day.

**Disclaimer: I make no claim to _Game of Thrones_ or any of its characters.**

_Eddard tried not to squirm under Papa's hard glare. His father was seated in his big chair like a king in his throne, preparing to pass judgment on the boy's misdeeds._

_ It weren't his fault. Eddard just wanted to play with the other boys his age, but Morden kept following him like a hungry stray. Eddard told him more than once to go home. That he was too little to play with them. But the three-year-old wouldn't listen. Not even when the older boy yelled at him. Finally, Eddard lost his temper and shoved his little brother. He didn't mean to push him so hard. The next thing he knew Morden was sprawled in the dirt wailing like a baby while blood leaked out of his mouth. He'd bitten his tongue._

_ Catelyn had come running when she heard the child's cries and immediately took Morden to their mother. Eddard had trailed behind with a heavy, twisty feeling in his belly. He felt bad about Morden, but more than that, he feared the inevitable punishment he was sure to receive for his crime._

_ Mama was comforting Morden when he entered the family's cottage. The look she gave Eddard made him want to burrow into the floor. "Your father wishes to speak to you," she told him, her mouth set in a grim line._

_ Eddard knew there was no delaying it. He walked slowly towards where his father sat. As he passed his older sister, she gave him a look that held a mixture of pity and accusation._

_ Papa glowered at his eldest son for a long, agonizing moment before his steely voice finally broke the silence. "What do you have to say for yourself?"_

_ Eddard hung his head, unable to meet his papa's disapproving eyes. "I pushed Morden."_

_ "Why?"_

_ The boy shrugged. This only seemed to anger his father even more. "Do not shrug, boy. Answer my question. Why did you push your brother?"_

_ Eddard chewed his lip as he stared down at the scuffed toes of his shoes. "He was buggin' me," he mumbled._

_ "'Bugging' you," Papa spat, "So you shoved him. A boy half your size, too little to defend himself. Is that how you treat those smaller than you when you're annoyed with them?"_

_ His father suddenly rose to his feet and Eddard stumbled back a step, staring up at him wide-eyed. Papa had always been big, but somehow his anger made him seem gigantic. For the first time in his young life, Eddard was genuinely afraid of his father._

_ "I'm bigger than you," Papa growled ominously, "Should I use my strength against you every time you do something to anger me? _Well?_"_

_ Eddard jumped and quickly shook his head. Tears began to well in his eyes._

_ Papa's expression remained unchanged. "The next time Morden starts 'bugging' you, you will come to me or your mother and we will handle him. Do you understand me, boy?"_

_ Eddard nodded meekly._

_ The anger finally seeped away, his father seeming to deflate until he was just Papa again. He held his hands out to the boy. "It's alright. I won't hurt you."_

_ Eddard started to cry as he leaned against Papa's legs. He had no idea how much his seeking comfort in his father relieved the large man. One broad hand rested atop the boy's head while the other patted his back. "It's alright, Ned. I'm not angry with you."_

_ Later, once his tears were dried, Eddard told Morden he was sorry for pushing him. The younger boy hugged him, mostly because he didn't like seeing his big brother in distress. Little children were always so quick to forgive._

_ Eddard still got mad at Morden sometimes, but he never laid a hand on him again._

* * *

All this happened barely a week before Arya and Rickon arrived. If Arya had been there to witness it, she might have initially thought that Sandor was being cruel, but after a while she would have understood the truth of his actions. It hadn't been an easy thing for Sandor to do. He hated the look of fear in his son's eyes, but he knew it was necessary. Punishing Eddard for bullying his brother would not have been enough. It would only have served to make the boy wary of being caught.

Gregor was like that. Aside from the incident were he damn near burned Sandor's face off, the elder Clegane son had been clever in hiding his misdeeds from their father. His only goal was to avoid punishment. Once he came of age and had no one to answer to, Gregor stopped bothering to hide his sadistic nature.

Sandor wanted to avoid that kind of thinking in his son at all costs, and the only way he could think of to prevent this was to make Eddard understand how his little brother must have felt. To be confronted by someone bigger and stronger, and be helpless to defend himself. Sandor wished there had been another way. Unfortunately, there was no getting through to a five-year-old with rational talk. Lessons taught through deeds were far more lasting.

It was a great relief to Sandor that the boy's fear in him did not linger. By day's end Eddard behaved no differently toward him than before. Sandor never had such love and trust in his own father. He wondered how he could possibly deserve it from his children.

* * *

In her years on the run, Arya learned how to be unobtrusive. She followed Sandor, unseen, while he went about his daily tasks. She observed him toiling in the woods, felling trees and sawing logs with the other men of Oldtree. She watched his interactions with the other woodcutters. He showed none of the domineering or aggressiveness she expected, nor did he go out of his way to engage in idle conversation. He seemed to prefer his own company, though when he did interact with his fellow woodcutters, he obviously got on well with them. Arya was surprised to see him treated with respect rather than fear. A far cry from what she remembered of him back in King's Landing.

She watched him at home as well. He always spent time with his children, no matter how weary he was from the day's work. He tried his best to treat them equally, though Arya could tell Catelyn held a special place in his heart.

And the children adored him. This shocked Arya most of all. There was no sign of fear or even wariness in their behavior. They played with him like he was an ordinary father, and not the cold-blooded killer he used to be. This angered Arya for some reason. How dare he pretend to be a decent man when he'd slaughtered innocent people in the king's service?

What infuriated her even more was the direwolves' reactions to him. They'd approached the cottage the day after she and Rickon arrived. Shaggydog had sniffed Sandor once in curiosity, then promptly walked away. Nymeria didn't even bother to show even that little interest in the man, which felt almost like a betrayal to Arya. Direwolves were very perceptive when it came to people, so why hadn't they growled as soon as they saw the Hound? Was it possible that he had them fooled as well?

Sandor was well aware of Arya's scrutiny. He knew she was hoping to catch him in a lie, as if his life in Oldtree was nothing more than an act. Not that he really blamed her. He wouldn't have believed his change of character either. It still frustrated him, though, to feel the constant weight of her judgmental gaze. If it weren't for the fact that she was his wife's sister, he would have confronted her about it. But he didn't want to upset the uneasy peace. Sansa was so happy to have members of her long-lost family in their home. And the children especially loved their uncle Rickon, who taught them all sorts of new games and even got his direwolf to join in the fun. He regaled them with stories of Winterfell as well. The children were soon eager to see it for themselves.

It was decided that the family would accept the Starks' offer to return with them to Winterfell for an extended visit. Sansa longed to see her brother Bran again, as well as her childhood home. Sandor had agreed, despite his misgivings. He was more than a little worried that she and the children might decide to stay there forever. He knew he would never be permanently welcome in Winterfell. His past was too well known there.

Sandor started at the feel of gentle fingers rubbing away the frown that creased his brow. He looked up at his wife's smiling face. It was nighttime. Sandor was seated on the bed, waiting while Sansa readied herself and ending up lost in thought.

"You're brooding," she accused fondly.

"You think there's nothing to brood over?" he asked.

She sat down beside him and hugged his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. "No, I know there is plenty to think on. I'm sorry, husband. You must feel as if you carry the burden alone, what with me being so caught up in the excitement of seeing Winterfell again."

"Many see me as little better than a kidnapper and outlaw," Sandor confessed, "And your sister, she seems to think me a demon from the seven hells."

"Arya was always hot-headed," Sansa said, "I fear her experiences only made it worse. She clings so fiercely to past wrongs. Her rage is as strong as when they occurred." She hesitated, then added, "She keeps bringing up the butcher's boy that died while we traveled the kingsroad."

"You mean the butcher's boy that I killed," he stated calmly.

"You had no choice. Joffrey, the queen-"

"They ordered me to catch the boy so they could punish him, not to kill him. Not that his death mattered to them," he added bitterly.

Sansa pursed her lips. She knew many of the wrongs her husband committed in his past life, but could not bring herself to reconcile them with the person he was now. The good and decent man who loved her and their children. "It no longer matters," she declared, "I've forgiven you long ago."

Sandor rested his chin atop her head. "It's not for you to forgive, Little Bird. You're not the one I wronged."

"Arya's not the one you wronged, either," she argued.

"No, it was the butcher whose son I murdered."

Sansa went still at those words. She realized with a stab of guilt that she never gave a thought to Micah's father. Yet he was the one who had suffered the most that terrible day. Not even losing Lady could compare to the anguish of losing a child. The thought of such a fate befalling one of her children made her tighten her grip on Sandor's arm. "It was my fault," she said in a weak voice, "I should have told the truth about what happened."

"And call Joffrey a liar? That would have been suicide."

"I should've known what kind of monster he was then," she stated bitterly, "I was such a blind little fool, caught up in a fantasy of palaces and royal balls and pretty gowns. I wanted so much to be Joffrey's queen and have his beautiful blonde children. How could I have been so stupid?"

Sandor scoffed. "You were thirteen, Little Bird. What girl that age hasn't acted stupid about a boy she was smitten with?"

Sansa grimaced. "I suppose Catelyn will behave that way once she reaches that age."

"Gods, I never thought of that," he groaned. Yet the idea of seeing his little girl become a young women filled him with a bittersweet feeling.

Sansa pulled back to meet her husband's eyes. "We don't have to go," she told him.

Sandor smiled tenderly at her. "The children deserve to see where their family comes from. And you deserve to see Winterfell again."

His wife smiled in gratitude. "Everything will be alright, my love. You'll see."

Sandor wished he shared her optimism.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Yeah, what I said before. Not mine.**

_Sandor walked into camp, leading Stranger by his bridle. The destrier gave no reaction to his grisly burden, other than the usual resentment at having to carry a load like a lowly packhorse. They passed Eddard Stark, and the lord of Winterfell stared at the bloodied, blanket-wrapped corpse slung across Stranger's back in growing horror._

_ "The butcher's boy. You rode him down?"_

_ "He ran," was Sandor's blunt retort, "Not very fast."_

_ He felt Lord Stark's accusing gaze on his back, but refused to give any sort of response. He went straight to the inn where the royal family stayed and laid the body at the king's feet. King Robert stared grimly at the boy's corpse while Cersei and Joffrey smirked triumphantly. As if there was anything about the situation to boast about._

_ "We should hang the corpse from the nearest tree," the queen declared with a sadistic gleam in her eye, "as an example of what happens when commoners' oafish children attack the prince. Perhaps then they'll learn to control their urchins better."_

_ Robert scowled at his wife. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you," his voice dripped with loathing. He turned to Sandor and barked, "Take the body to the butcher. Let him bury his son." The look the king gave his wife and son halted whatever protests they might have made._

_ Sandor covered the body in the blood-stained blanket once again and hefted it over his shoulder. Though his expression remained indifferent, secretly he was relieved not to have to string the child's corpse up. This entire shit situation was already testing his limits._

_ As soon as his son's body lay on the ground, the butcher threw himself onto the sad bundle and wailed like a woman. Sandor remained stone-faced as he turned and abruptly walked away. He marched straight for his tent where he flung off his armor and snarled at his squire to fetch him some wine. He drank heavily that night, and the next as well. It was the only way to hold back the dreams that were sure to haunt him later._

* * *

They left Oldtree a fortnight later. Arya, Rickon, and their men. Sandor, Sansa, and the children. The family borrowed a small cart and oxen from the woodcutters Bertra and Syman, and also arranged to have their cottage looked after by the neighbors. It would be several months before they saw home again.

The children were elated by the prospect of adventure, even Catelyn, who at least had some inkling of how long and tiring such a journey would be. Winterfell was so much farther away than Ironoak, almost within sight of the Wall. So many stories revolved around this ancient keep, from the ancient kings of the First Men, to the much beloved Robb Stark, the last King in the North. The thought of seeing the place for themselves was enough to tempt the youngsters into running ahead of the adults, who seemed to be taking far too long to get started.

Many villagers turned out to wish them a safe journey. Elanor gave Sansa a basket of medicinal herbs, ointments, and tinctures to aid in whatever mishaps might occur, while Maester Tolbert handed Sandor a cage of ravens, so that he and the rest of Oldtree be kept appraised of the family's progress.

Arya waited impatiently for everyone to finish their goodbyes so they could get started. She noticed Rickon had a few goodbyes of his own, namely with some of the local village girls. She rolled her eyes. Her little brother had grown into a handsome young man in recent years. Unfortunately, he was all too aware of this fact, always preening and flirting outrageously with every pretty maid in sight. It was so annoying.

Another mounted rider came up beside her. She ignored him, figuring it was one of the men of her and her brother's escort.

"Still playing the loner, Wolf Girl?"

Her head jerked around. The rider beside her was Clegane, sitting astride that monstrous russet she heard was called Demon. He was dressed in his usual roughspun clothes and a plain leather jerkin, his longsword strapped across his back. The smirk on his scarred face made the fingers of her left hand twitch.

"Are you planning to keep your distance for the journey as well?" he asked, his tone mocking.

"You should be glad I'm keeping my distance," she all but snarled.

Sandor scoffed. "I don't give a shit if you keep the whole of Westeros between us, but you're avoiding your sister as well, and it upsets her. She thinks you're angry with her for marrying me."

Arya's scowl deepened at his rebuke. "What goes on between me and my sister is none of your business, Hound."

She almost jumped when Sandor lunged towards her, bringing his horrible face to within inches of hers. "Your sister _is_ my business, Wolf Girl," he growled, "When she's upset, I'm upset. And you do not want to see me upset."

"What're you going to do," she challenged, "Ride me down?"

Sandor leaned back in his saddle with a humorless chuckle. "Seven hells, I'm starting to think you enjoy being miserable." He kicked Demon into a trot before Arya had a chance to spit out a retort.

They were finally underway shortly after. Sansa drove the cart with Catelyn beside her. Baby Zander rode in the back, nestled amongst the softer bundles and peering out at the landscape in wide-eyed wonder. The two older boys hadn't wanted to ride in the cart - Eddard because he thought he was too big to ride with the baby, Morden because he always followed his elder brother's lead - so Sandor allowed Eddard to ride with him on Demon while Rickon took Morden. The boys were more than happy with this arrangement, at least for the first couple of leagues. Being unaccustomed to so much riding, it didn't take long for the boys to become saddle sore. The ended up riding in the cart after all, and by afternoon all the children were sound asleep.

Boredom was the worst enemy they had to contend with. The novelty of travel wore off all too soon. The children had far less patience with monotony than their elders and it was a constant challenge for the adults to find ways to keep the youngsters entertained.

Evenings, when they made camp or stayed at the occasional inn, were far less stressful. The children could stretch their legs and play games while the adults took their turns at various tasks and set up their tents. When night fell, they all gathered around the fire to eat and relax while exchanging stories. Rickon usually had the most outrageous stories which he swore were true, mainly about himself, Bran, Hodor, and Osha and their journey across the Northern lands after their escape from Winterfell. These stories almost always ended with everyone laughing hysterically (even the ever-dour Arya).

Arya did make an effort to get more involved with Sansa and the youngsters. She never approached them when Sandor was near, but if he was on guard duty or handling some other task, Arya would sit with her sister's family and talk. She told them about her adventures with Gendry and Hot Pie, glossing over the worst moments, such as their time at Harrenhal. Arya was surprised to find herself becoming almost wistful at times. Those years on the run were the hardest of her life, but there were moments that could be considered good. She found that she missed Gendry's companionship. He aggravated her sometimes, but he was always steadfast and reliable in bad situations. She even missed Hot Pie, a little, if only for the unintentional comedy he provided. Hot Pie had chosen to remain at Riverrun, working in the kitchens as head cook.

"I was about your age when my father hired a Braavosi Dancing Master to teach me to use a sword," she told Catelyn one evening. The girl's eyes lit up at this revelation.

Sansa's eyes widened as well. "You mean that 'dancing instructor' you had back in King's Landing was really a swordsman?"

Arya smirked. "You thought I was just clumsy, coming home everyday covered in bruises and scrapes."

Her sister uttered a self-effacing laugh. "You hated learning anything remotely ladylike. I should have realized something was off when you kept going on about your dancing lessons with such enthusiasm."

"What was it like?" Catelyn asked. She leaned forward in eagerness. She'd never heard of a woman other than Brienne of Tarth who knew how to use a sword. The fact that her own aunt received such training thrilled her.

"It was hard," was Arya's frank response, "Syrio Forel, my teacher, never held back just because I was young or a girl. And some of his most difficult lessons didn't have anything to do with swordplay. At least, not directly. Like learning to sneak up on cats and standing on one toe for minutes at a time. All these things taught me to be swift and silent, invisible to the enemy and able to dodge their blades with amazing agility. And I was so eager to learn."

"So that you could be a great hero?" Cat asked.

Arya shook her head. "So that I could protect the people I cared about." Her eyes flicked to the broad silhouette of Sandor, standing apart from the group while he guarded the camp. She had a feeling he heard every word she said.

"Can I learn?" Catelyn blurted, startling Arya from her distracted thoughts, "Will you teach me?"

"Erm..." Arya met her sister's gaze.

"You'll have to ask your father," Sansa told the girl, "But if he agrees, and Arya's comfortable with it, then I have no objection."

Arya was surprised. The Sansa she remembered never would have said such a thing. The very idea of a girl learning to use a sword would have been too outrageous.

"Can I ask him now, Mum?"

"In the morning," Sansa brushed the girl's hair back from her forehead, "Now, it's off to bed with you."

The child grumbled, though she obeyed and went to join her younger brothers already passed out in their bedrolls. The adults did not stay up for much longer. Travel left everyone weary at day's end. Those who weren't standing guard crawled into their tents or curled up beside the campfire's embers. Arya was among the latter. She preferred the open sky to a stuffy tent, so long as the weather was pleasant enough. She was just drifting off when a sound of movement caused her to tense.

"Arya?" a small voice whispered, "You still awake?"

She relaxed with a sigh. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I couldn't sleep," Cat replied, ignoring the fact that she'd only just lay down moments ago, "I wanted to ask you something."

"What's that?" Arya mumbled, already dozing off once again.

The girl hesitated, then asked, "Why're you mad at Papa?"

The question woke Arya right up. "What makes you think I'm mad at him?"

"I heard you yellin' the first day you came to our house," Catelyn said, "And sometimes I see you giving Papa these real mean looks, like you wanna hit him or something."

Arya sat up and twisted around to face the shadowy little figure crouched beside her. Part of her was tempted to spill it all out to the girl, but another part of her, the part that remembered what it was like to love her father, held the words back. "Maybe you should ask your father about it."

The girl shifted uncomfortably. "I...don't really want to."

"Are you afraid to?" Arya's left hand twitched.

"No," Cat replied, "I just...don't like seeing him sad."

Sad? What the seven hells was she talking about, _sad?_ "What do you mean?"

"Papa gets sad a lot. He hides it most times, but I can see it. I asked Mum about it and she said it was because he felt bad about the things he used to do, before he 'n' Mum got married. That's why they almost never talk about it."

Arya wanted to scoff at the notion of the Hound showing remorse for anything he'd done. Either that or say _good, I hope he's haunted forever._ Instead, she said, "I really can't tell you much. You'd have to ask your parents about it. All I can say is your papa wasn't always a good man."

The girl was silent for a long moment, pondering her words. Finally, she stood and headed back towards her tent. "G'night, Arya."

"Night."

Arya lay back down and drew the blanket around her. Her eyes were drawn to the stars peering through the overhanging tree branches, as sharp and clear as diamonds. It was a long time before she finally slept.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: Anything recognizable from the show or the books isn't mine.**

_"He's not going to shatter," Sansa laughed, watching her husband gingerly hold their newborn son with a look akin to terror. "You were never this nervous with Catelyn."_

_ "I damn sure was," he said, "You just don't remember."_

_ Eddard made a noise._

_ "He's crying!" Sandor's obvious panic was the most comical thing his wife had ever seen._

_ "He's not crying. That was more like a grunt," she smirked, "Takes after his father."_

_ Sandor glared at her. "I don't know why the seven hells you want me to hold him anyway. Aren't you ready with that bath yet?"_

_ "Yes, yes." Sansa poured the heated water into the basin, checking to make sure the temperature was just right. "And I asked you to hold him because you need to spend a little more time with your son. It's almost like you've been avoiding him." She threw him a knowing look._

_ Sandor frowned and stared down at the tiny infant cradled in his huge hands. He'd hoped for another daughter, but the fickle gods decided on a boy this time. Sandor's private belief that all the men of his family were cursed meant he was constantly fighting an internal battle against his feelings for the child. He wanted to love his son, but he didn't want his heart broken should the boy...go wrong. Part of him knew it was foolish. Yet when he looked at this helpless babe, he couldn't help but see the potential for another Gregor._

_ Eddard grunted again and wriggled in his father's grasp. His eyes blinked myopically up at the rough face that definitely was not his mother's. His tiny hand encountered a thumb, which he then reflexively squeezed._

_ Sandor looked down at the baby's innocently scrunched face. It was frightening how easily his son broke through his defenses without even trying._

_ "It's ready. Give him here." Sansa held out her arms. Sandor passed the baby to her and she gently lowered Eddard into the warm bath._

_ Four-year-old Catelyn came over and stood on tiptoe to peer at her brother. Ever since the infant was born, she was curious of him. More than once her parents found her sneaking over to the crib to peek in at Eddard while he slept._

_ "Would you like to help?" Sansa asked. The girl nodded. Sandor helped Cat up onto the table and Sansa handed the girl a washcloth. Following her mother's lead, Catelyn gently washed her baby brother._

_ Sandor watched this family tableau with a strange ache in his heart. He felt his resistance weaken in spite of himself, and even smiled when Eddard's flailing arm accidentally splashed water in Catelyn's face. When the bath was over, Sandor picked up the towel without being asked and accepted the wet infant once again. As he dried his son off, he looked into Eddard's sleepy eyes and decided there was nothing of Gregor in him._

* * *

Things came to a head between Arya and Sandor near the end of the months-long journey. They were days from Winterfell and the terrain was becoming more familiar to Sansa with every mile. She started pointing out landmarks she recognized with an innocent excitement the children found infectious. They were all chattering away as they rode together in the cart. That evening, after they made camp, Sansa told the youngsters more stories she recalled from her childhood in Winterfell. She also told her avid young audience what she remembered of the journey she and her sister and father made together on the kingsroad as they traveled with King Robert and his family to King's Landing. She failed to notice how Arya and Sandor got more and more tense the farther along in her story she went. She was too busy glossing over the unhappy moments, specifically the terrible events that followed the unfortunate day when she and Joffrey went for a walk and encountered Arya and the butcher's boy. She said only that her direwolf, Lady, died.

"How'd she die?" Eddard innocently asked.

Sansa glanced at her sister and chewed her lip. She didn't want to lie to her children, but did not feel they were old enough to really understand everything that had happened. "Queen Cersei...ordered her killed. Prince Joffrey had been bitten, and the queen punished Lady for it."

"Lady bit the prince?" Catelyn asked, "Why?"

Before Sansa could answer, Arya interjected, "It wasn't Lady who bit him. It was Nymeria. Lady wasn't even there when it happened. But I had Nymeria run away so she wouldn't get hurt, and the queen didn't care which direwolf got killed, so long as one of them died."

The children absorbed this grim revelation for a moment, then Cat asked again, "Why did she bite the prince?"

Arya looked at her sister. Sansa's eyes pleaded with her to keep it brief, but otherwise gave no sign that she would interfere. Arya shifted where she sat and began to tell her niece and nephews about that fateful time, "While the king's party made camp for the day, me and a friend, Micah, went off to practice sword fighting together. Just whacking each other with sticks, really. Then Joffrey shows up," she omitted the detail of Sansa being with him, "He started making fun of Micah for playing at being a knight. Joffrey drew his own sword - a real sword - and threatened Micah with it. So I hit him with my stick. Joffrey got angry and started coming after me. That's when Nymeria bit him. She was protecting me. Then Micah ran off in one direction, me and Nymeria in the other."

"They were missing for days," Sansa added, resigned to this story being told, "father's and the king's men searched all over the forest. They finally found Arya and brought her before King Robert, but Nymeria was gone."

"I knew they'd kill her for what she did," Arya continued, "So I made her run away. We didn't see each other again for several years.

"When they brought me to see the king, Cersei and Joffrey were with him," her expression grew hard, "Joffrey lied, said that me and Micah attacked him for no reason and that I sicced the direwolf on him. I tried to tell King Robert what really happened, but he wouldn't listen. I was only a girl. Nobody was going to take my word over the prince's. So I was punished and Queen Cersei had Lady killed instead of Nymeria."

A somber quiet fell over the camp. Then Eddard asked the question Sansa had hoped would be overlooked, "What happened to Micah?"

This was it, Arya's chance to tell the children the truth about their father. But when she opened her mouth, the words didn't want to come. She struggled and grew angrier with each failed silence. Why wouldn't her mouth cooperate?

The children stared at her, expectant. Arya abruptly rose and stormed away, leaving their confusion in her wake.

Sansa shifted uncomfortably and finally answered for her sister, "Micah was killed by one of Joffrey's men while trying to run." It wasn't a lie. She told herself it was truth enough.

Arya didn't consciously know where she was going until she saw the looming silhouette ahead. Sandor, standing guard. He always stood guard first so he could join his family in their tent that much sooner.

"Come to growl at me some more, Wolf Girl?" He didn't move, just kept gazing out at the night. This only angered Arya more, like he was slighting her.

She opened her mouth. The words came this time, but not the ones she expected. "Why did you kill Micah? Did Joffrey order you to do it? Did Cersei?"

A sound like a low chuckle, devoid of humor or maliciousness. "You won't believe the truth when you hear it."

"As if someone like you _can_ tell the truth," she spat.

A long, weary sigh escaped him. "I don't care what you believe," he murmured, "I'm tired of this shit. You want to know why your precious butcher's boy died? I'll tell you." The silhouette turned, and Arya knew he now faced her. "Your friend died because he ran. I found him cowering in the brush. He was filthy and half-starved by then. I remember thinking he looked like a rabbit, crouching there staring up at me with those big, frightened eyes. I told him it was over, he was caught. He might as well come quietly and accept whatever punishment the king gave him. But the little fool didn't listen. He was more rabbit than I thought, the way he bolted. Nothing but panic."

"So you rode him down," Arya accused.

"I chased him," Sandor corrected, "I was only going to knock him down, stun him so I could dismount and truss him up. But then he just dodged right in front of me, maybe trying to get to the deeper woods, I dunno. He did it too suddenly for me to swerve my horse. I damn near fell out of the saddle when Stranger trampled the boy."

Arya's hands clenched into fists.

"As soon as I got my horse under control I dismounted and went to check on the boy. He was still breathing, but he might as well have been dead. There was a dent in his head as big as my fist. I'd seen wounds like that before from men being kicked by horses. They never woke from it. Sometimes took weeks for their bodies to finally take the hint and die," Sandor paused for a significant beat, then said in a low voice, "So I saved everybody a long wait and ran him through with my sword."

Arya was trembling at this point. Her left hand itched to reach for her sword. "You're a liar."

"I didn't lie about you not believing me," he retorted.

"You murdered him. You're nothing but a killer!"

"And you hate me," Sandor responded in a tone that, from anyone else, would have been described as pitying, "So tell me, Wolf Girl, how much harm has your years of hatred inflicted on me? Until you showed up, I never gave a thought to you or your precious butcher's boy. Just as my brother never gave a thought to me, though there were times my hatred of him was all that kept me going. How you feel about me and what I did doesn't matter. Not to me, not to the Old Gods or the New. Hate me all you want, Wolf Girl. You're the only one who will suffer from it. And your friend will still be dead."

He turned his back on her then, dismissing her as he returned his attention to the night's potential dangers.

Arya's body was so tense she felt she might shake herself apart. Her hand went to the hilt of her sword, gripping it hard enough for her knuckles to turn white. She imagined herself drawing her sword and plunging it into Sandor's unguarded back. Once would not be enough for her, though. In her mind's eye she saw herself stabbing him over and over, screaming out her hatred while she butchered him. Butchered. Butcher's boy. Micah. It was her fault he was dead. She shouldn't have badgered him into her ridiculous game of "sword practice." All he wanted to do that day was hunt for frogs.

It was Arya's fault. She knew it, and she pushed the knowledge to the back of her mind, focusing instead on the prince and his Hound. She put all the blame on them so that she could avoid blaming herself. But it never worked, not really. It was her fault Micah was dead.

Arya spun away and ran, stumbling over the uneven ground, its obstacles unseen in the dark. Her throat burned and her face felt hot and strangely wet. She ran past the circle of tents and the tethered horses, beyond the faint glow of the dying campfire, until her legs finally gave out and she collapsed to her knees. She sat there, head bowed, for she knew not how long. Then she heard the familiar deep panting and felt a surprisingly gentle nudge at her shoulder. Without lifting her head, Arya reached out and wrapped her arms around Nymeria's neck. She buried her face in the direwolf's soft fur and, with great wracking sobs, finally mourned her childhood friend's death.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **I cannot believe how many people are reading this story! I know I've said it before, but thanks for reading, and thanks to everybody's who's been reviewing, following, and favorite-ing. Here's the latest chapter! :-D

**Disclaimer: _Game of Thrones_ TV show and books belong to HBO and George R.R. Martin, respectively.**

_Sansa was jolted awake as the door to the room she and Sandor were sharing for the night crashed open and Sandor lumbered in with a half-empty flagon clutched in one hand and a more-than-half-drunk wench gripping his other arm. Sansa rolled her eyes and covered her head with a pillow. Neither one of them seemed to notice._

_ "Off with yeh now," Sandor slurred, "Can't y' see me wife's over there sleepin'?" This was not the first time they posed as husband and wife. Other times they were father and daughter, or even on one occasion a sellsword escorting a young septa to a lord's keep. The husband and wife ruse felt more natural now, however, since their relationship had matured._

_ The wench tittered. "That skinny thing's yer wife?" she whispered theatrically, which meant anyone within twenty feet could clearly hear her, "Looks like yeh'd snap 'er in two. Me now," she leered, "I can take a beatin'."_

_ "I'm sure yeh can," Sandor chuckled suggestively. The sound made Sansa clench her fists until her knuckles turned white. "But I've gotta make an early start tomorrow," he continued, "'Fraid I needs me rest."_

_ The wench huffed. "Fine. Yeh don't know what you're missin', big man. There's plenty o' men who're eager t' get under me skirts."_

I'll bet there are, you trollop,_ Sansa thought sourly._

_ The wench staggered off and Sandor slammed the door behind her. Sansa immediately sat up and hurled her pillow at him. "You brought a whore to our room?" she accused._

_ Sandor dodged the missile easily, all traces of his earlier drunkenness gone. "She was holding onto me like a lamprey. I couldn't shake her off without dropping character."_

_ "I'll give you character!" She grabbed the other pillow from the bed and flung it at his head._

_ Sandor laughed as he ducked. "You'll give me character? That doesn't make any sense."_

_ "Oh, be quiet," she sulked._

_ Sandor set the half-empty wine flagon down on the room's table, retrieved the pillows, and approached the bed. "Word of the bounties on our heads hasn't reached this far yet," he said, placing the pillows on the bed and climbing in beside Sansa, "We're safe for the night, at least."_

_ Sansa sighed, still sitting up, one hand absently rubbing her belly. "It'll be nice to sleep in a real bed for once."_

_ Sandor's larger hand covered hers. The bump was small, hardly noticeable unless one knew what to look for. Sandor's expression sobered as his anxieties began to gnaw at him again. "The locals say there's a septon in a village about a fortnight from here." He looked up at her. "Are you sure you want to go through with this, Little Bird?"_

_ "Of course I am," she said without hesitation. She reached over and gently brushed the hair back from his forehead. "I love you. Even if you did let that woman drape herself all over you."_

_ Sandor chuckled. "Jealous? Over this old dog?"_

_ "As if you weren't secretly thrilled," she sniffed._

_ "Not so secretly." He tugged her arm. "Come here."_

_ Sansa lay down and curled into Sandor's comforting embrace. She buried her face against his chest, breathing in his earthy scent, only slightly tainted by the smell of sour wine. She felt the booming of his heart, faster than it should have __been. She knew it was nerves. He was frightened of their impending marriage, of the child he'd fathered inside her, of failing them both. But Sansa trusted him, more than he seemed able to trust himself._

It's all I've ever wanted_,__ she thought, echoing the words she spoke as a girl, when she believed Joffrey was her one true love and she was destined to become queen. A childish fancy. Now she realized what she'd truly wanted was this, a man who was good to her, who loved her, and who she loved without condition. Sandor would doubtless tell her she was still being childish, but she knew, deep down, he'd always wanted this, too._

* * *

Tears came to Sansa's eyes when she laid sight on the great keep of Winterfell for the first time in so many years. She was thirteen when she left its familiar halls for King's Landing. Just a child, though she didn't think herself as such at the time. She'd been so eager to leave, thinking her childhood home a stifling place. Now she looked on its ancient walls and battlements with fondness. She appreciated now what a good place it had been to grow up in. Safe, sheltered, and loved. Feelings she did not experience again until she and Sandor settled in Oldtree.

She looked to her husband, riding alongside the wagon on his horse. None of the children rode with him now. They were all dozing in the wagon, exhausted from travel. Sandor looked more rugged than ever, his ragged beard having grown in over the past few weeks. It was thick enough to actually conceal some of the scars on the lower part of his face. The rest were partially hidden behind his long hair. Sansa couldn't help but think that he looked like he belonged here, at the heart of the North. With his dark coloring and powerful build, he probably had the blood of the First Men in him at that.

Noticing his wife's scrutiny, Sandor turned his head just enough for his brown eyes to meet her gaze. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile. It was good to see Sansa happy, in spite of the tiredness that weighed them all down.

"Looks like I finally brought you back to Winterfell," he remarked.

Sansa grinned. "Better late than never." She glanced back at their slumbering children.

"Let them sleep a while longer," Sandor suggested, "Enjoy the peace while we can."

Sansa nodded in agreement.

Arya rode some distance ahead of the rest. Ever since her confrontation with the Hound, she had kept an even greater distance than before. Her inner turmoil had transformed into anxiety. She did not know what to feel now. She did not forgive Clegane, and probably never would, but she no longer had it in her to maintain the level of hatred that had sustained her for so long. She felt lost and confused. What was she supposed to do with her life now? She did not fit in with the other highborn ladies. She never had, really, but now she was like a foreigner. She had no idea how to behave, how to belong. Couldn't see herself married to some lord and raising children, doing needlework, running the household. That wasn't her. And now, without vengeance to drive her on, she no longer knew who she was or where she belonged.

Rickon trotted his mount up alongside her. "Home at last, thank the gods," he shifted in his saddle, "My poor arse is grateful, if nothing else."

Arya grunted. Her little brother quirked an eyebrow. "That's it? Not even a roll of the eye or a smirk? Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," she responded in a dull voice, "I just want this journey to be over."

"Bran will be proud of you."

She looked at him querulously.

"For not trying to kill Sandor," Rickon explained.

"If I'd wanted to kill him he'd be dead. I wouldn't have _tried_."

The younger man smirked. "Right. Keep telling yourself that."

Arya did roll her eyes that time.

As their little procession neared the gates, Sansa finally woke the children. They sat up, rubbing their eyes and blinking owlishly at the looming castle before them. Catelyn clambered onto the seat beside her mother. "It's big!" the girl exclaimed.

"Bigger than some," Sansa conceded, "It is the oldest and greatest keep in the North, dating back to the days of the First Men. And it has always been ruled by the Starks."

Banners flew from the parapets, proudly displaying the direwolf of House Stark. As they entered the main gate, Sansa saw the entire household and the guards had turned out to welcome them. The sight brought back vivid memories of the day when King Robert and his people arrived.

An ornate wooden chair had been set out at the front of the gathering. Seated there was a handsome man who bore a striking resemblance to Sansa's long dead father. His face, however, lacked the careworn wrinkles Ned Stark had borne. He beamed warmly and held out both hands. "Welcome to Winterfell."

"Bran!" Sansa jumped down from the wagon as soon as it was stopped and hurried to him. Her younger self would have been appalled by such unladylike behavior, but all she cared about at that moment was assuring herself of her brother's reality. Bran seemed to have no objections. His smile broadened as his sister embraced him. "You look so much like Father," she told him.

"So I've been told," he replied, "Though I don't see it, myself. You look lovely, sister."

Sansa laughed. "And you are a very kind liar, brother."

"I'm the lord of Winterfell," he reminded her with a grin, "It's not lying, it's diplomacy. Now, introduce me to your family. I'm eager to meet them."

Sansa quickly fetched the children. Little Zander was able to walk by then, after a fashion, so long as he had someone's hand to hold onto to help him keep his balance. Gripping his mother's hand, he wobbled over to his uncle and immediately tried to climb onto Bran's lap. Bran chuckled and lifted the infant up. Morden, in an uncharacteristic show of jealousy, immediately clambered up onto his uncle's lap as well, ignoring his mother's chastisements.

"It's alright," Bran assured her, "The gods know my legs are no good for anything else." There was no bitterness in his voice when he said this. It was merely a statement of fact.

"And you must be Eddard," he said to the eldest boy. Eddard nodded, suddenly shy.

Cat had no such constraints. "I'm Catelyn."

"That you are," Bran's expression softened, "My mother's name was Catelyn. Did you know that?"

She nodded.

"You look like her."

Cat frowned. It felt strange, being compared to someone she had never met. "Everybody says I look like Mum."

"And who do you think your mum looks like?" her uncle teased. He gently put the two youngsters down and gestured behind him. "Why don't we get in out of the chill. I'm sure you would all like some time to rest and refresh yourselves before the welcoming feast. Hodor!"

"Hodor." A huge man lumbered over and scooped the Stark lord up as if he weighed nothing.

"Giant!" Morden exclaimed, pointing. As if no one could guess who he was talking about.

Bran smiled. "Don't worry. He's a gentle giant. Wouldn't hurt a mouse, would you, Hodor?"

"Hodor," the big man nodded happily. His hair was slowly turning from gray to white. Otherwise, age hardly seemed to have touched him.

They entered the castle together, then Bran had one of the servants lead the family to the chambers that had been prepared for them. "The meal won't be ready for a few hours yet," Bran informed them, "So don't feel you need to rush anything. Feel free to relax and catch your breaths."

The family was grateful. As thrilling as it was to have finally reached their destination, they were still quite tired from their travels. The servant who led them through the halls of the recently renovated part of the keep was a tall, sturdy girl in her early teens with unruly blonde hair barely held in place beneath a knotted scarf.

"The two older boys got this room," she pointed, "The girl gets the one next to it, an' you and your babe get the big room opposite," she indicated the door across the hall.

Catelyn was shocked. "I get my own room?" She quickly dashed through the door before anyone could respond. It was relatively small and humbly furnished, with a small bed, a cedar trunk, and a table and chair placed near the single window. Cat could not have been more elated. Nor could her brothers, once they saw they would each have a bed to himself in their shared room. Doubtless there would be a great deal of jumping about on the mattresses before they settled down.

There was a crib already set at the foot of the large four poster bed in Sandor and Sansa's room. Sansa lay her sleepy infant down and Zander immediately curled up and drifted off.

"I'll be up t' fetch you when the feast's ready," the servant girl reminded them, then left them alone, shutting the oaken door behind her.

Sansa flopped onto the bed with a great sigh of relief. "Finally, we can sleep in a real bed again."

Sandor put aside his longsword, shrugged out of his leather jerkin, and kicked off his boots before joining his wife on the bed. They lay atop the quilted duvet and gazed up at the ceiling, letting their muscles slowly relax.

"Bran has changed so much," Sansa murmured, "Yet I can still see the little boy he used to be. Isn't that odd?"

Sandor uttered a noncommittal grunt. He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift.

Sansa rolled her head to the side to look at him. "What happened between you and Arya?"

Sandor cracked an eye and glanced at her. "What makes you think anything happened?"

"She's been behaving differently, somehow. More distant, if that's even possible."

He let his eye drift shut again. "We had a talk. Didn't come to blows, I promise."

"I didn't think it did."

He sighed, "I told her about what happened with the butcher's boy. How he died."

A thoughtful silence, then, "Did she believe you?"

"Don't know," he muttered, "Don't care."

"Doesn't her feeling towards you matter? For the sake of peace, at least?"

Sandor's hand inched over until his fingers interlaced with hers. "Only people whose opinions matter to me are right here and in the rooms across the hall."

"She's my sister," Sansa quietly declared, "Her regard of you matters to me."

"It doesn't matter to me, Little Bird," he replied, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You're just being honest." She gave his hand a squeeze. "You've been so supportive throughout this whole journey. I hope you know how grateful I am to have you here."

Her words eased the last traces of tension from his body and Sandor dozed off with a faint smile on his face.


End file.
